When Kabra Met the Cobra
by Syberian Quest
Summary: The Kabras. They are one of the most feared and powerful families in the entire world. But where did they start? Who was the first? This is the story of not just any Kabra, but the first Kabra. This is his journey from a nobody to a first-class cobra.
1. Prologue

_Abosolute power corrupts absolutely."  
_- Lord Acton, 1887

The world fears me.

This is not a statement; it is a fact. Whenever someone approaches me, even one of my own children, I can practically feel them quivering in fear. They treat me as though I were a cobra, poised and ready to attack. Truly, I could not bring myself to deny the accuracy of that comparison even if I desired to do so.

It was not always like that.

In fact, many would be surprised to learn the truth about my life, where I began. My story is one of power. Raw, unbridled power. Few have ever rivaled what I have accomplished. Almost all who did - they were Cahills. For once, I can proudly say that I have no Cahill blood flowing through my veins. I do not possess their extraordinary abilities. Still, I have risen to a position that no one before me ever has. Even Cahills tremble before me.

If you know anything about me, you may wonder how I ever could have risen above the fate I was born into. Yes, it is true, my life began pitifully. It is also true that I am not British. India is my homeland. The land of exotic spices, silk, and treasures that countless seamen have lost their lives in search of is my own. So, what is the secret to my success? Some have started rumors that I am an Indian prince, one of royal lineage and was destined for greatness since the start. Others have claimed that I am a son of Vishnu and possess supreme powers. Tales like these make me laugh. As much as I wish that I had been born into a life of luxury and special privileges, I could not honestly admit that as being the truth. Everything that I am, everything that I have, it is the result of years of hard labor and many, many sacrifices.

Would I do it all over again? I honestly could not say. Despite my vast power, I am a slave. I have chosen a path that now controls my every motion. I am restricted like a man clad in iron. Still, despite this, there are many regrets that have resurfaced as my days left on this earth grow fewer. The only way to come to terms with what I have done and how I have lived is to go back.

I once tried to ignore my past. I acted as though it had never happened. I even tried to run away. Now, though, as my last sunset steadily approaches, I will face what I have tried to avoid doing for so long.

I will face my past.

* * *

**Kabra. An Indian name of unknown origin. Ian and Natalie Kabra have olive skin. Obvious conclusion - the first Kabra was Indian. What else do we know about him? Apparently he "improved the Cahill bloodline." What else, though? Besides the fact that he wasn't a Cahill, we don't know much. As the head of the illustrious Kabras, he must have been something special, though. This story will be about this first Kabra. We don't know much about him, but I will be taking cultural and historical elements into account and attempting to create a realistic picture of what could have happened. **

**~Syberia~**


	2. Chapter 1

As a child, I hated snakes. Strangely, this is one of my most vivid childhood memories. I've found that, at times, children are extremely perceptive. They tend to notice things that most adults would overlook. It is unfortunate that that I did not pay attention to my own childhood intuition. Because now, I am what I hated most – a snake.

What else do I remember about my early childhood? Truly, I have no desire to relive that part of my life again. Honestly, there is not even much to remember. I do not even know the day of my birth. All I know is this – not long after my arrival in this world, I was abandoned by my mother in the streets of Calcutta. I was simply one face among millions sharing a similar fate. The only difference, though, was that I was not forgotten. I have one man to thank for that: Vidhya.

But enough about that. The _real _story begins much later. When? Well, let us skip to one humid, Indian summer day, and you will find out.

For _this_ is the day that everything changed.

~o~

_**June 28, 1876**_

"Hey, Raj! Look at what I found!"

I turned to find my best friend, Baljeet, running down a nearby hill towards me while waving something high in the air.

"What is it, Baljeet?" I called out to him.

He did not reply, but simply continued running full steam ahead. His unruly black hair flopped around his head, and I could tell that he was panting heavily. Whatever he had to say, it was important.

As he approached me, I could hear him gasping heavily for air. I could tell that the run had aggravated his asthma. When he finally reached me, he wordlessly outstretched his arm, opened his palm, and presented me with his prize – a snakeskin.

I simply stared. "This? This is what you wanted to show me? I've seen tons of snakeskins before; what makes this so special?"

A smug smile spread across Baljeet's face. It was the same smile that he always used when he had a secret that he refused to share. I hated that smile.

"This isn't any ordinary snake skin, Raj. Can't you tell? This is a _king cobra's _skin."

My mouth dropped open. Of all the snakes in the world, the king cobra was one of the most feared and revered. To see the skin of one, well, to a 10-year-old boy, that was quite a treat.

"Wow!" I gasped. "Where did you find that?"

"I found it by the river," Baljeet proclaimed proudly, "when I was taking my bath."

Suddenly, a voice called out to us.

"Kabra, Baljeet, what mischief are you two getting into?"

I turned at the sound of the lovely voice. There stood Mishti, who was holding a jug and watching us with mild amusement. She was beautiful, and despite being more than five years older than us, we were both smitten with her. With beautiful cream-colored skin, long, flowing, jet-black hair, and the deep brown, almond-shaped eyes commonly attributed to Bengali women, she was the picture of loveliness. To fully complete the picture, though, a beautiful blue sari was wrapped around her. I gulped.

"Well," I managed to stammer, "Baljeet found a king cobra's old snakeskin. Tell her, Baljeet."

"For your information," Baljeet said, sending a scowl in my direction, "it's not old. I bet it was shed yesterday, at the latest."

"Let me see," Mishti interrupted before we could break into a fight. She put down her jug before coming towards us and examining the snakeskin.

After barely a glance, she had made her decision. "It's not a king cobra's skin. Maybe something a little more unusual than the ones that we usually see, but it's definitely not a king."

"Says you!" Baljeet said angrily.

"I agree with her," I said as I shuffled towards Mishti.

"You only agree with her because you're_ in_ _love _with her!" Baljeet shot at me.

"I am not!" I retorted. "You're the one who's in love with her. Besides, Mishti's _way _smarter than you. I think that she'd know." I crossed my arms and waited for his retaliation.

But, before he could, Mishti interrupted us. "Hold on there, you two. This isn't worth fighting about. Baljeet, you have a very lovely snakeskin, even if it isn't a king cobra's. Now, if all you two can do is fight, then I think that you need something else to preoccupy you." She paused, the gears in her mind clearly turning. "Hey, here's an idea! Why don't you two strong, handsome, young men assist a sweet, helpless, damsel-in-distress like me?" She finished with an overly dramatic fake flutter of her eyelashes, and I grinned.

"Sure, Mishti. What do you want me to do?"

"Suck-up," Baljeet muttered under his breath.

I ignored him as Mishti pointed to a clutter of jugs. "I need to fill all of those with water. You up for the challenge?"

I flexed my muscles. "I am, but I don't know about Baljeet. He's pretty weak."

"Am not!" he protested.

Mishti stifled a laugh. "All right then, follow me."

Quickly, Baljeet and I scampered towards the jugs, each picked one up, and followed Mishti's lead down the winding dirt road that led to the river. Both Baljeet and I tried to stay as close to Mishti as we could. It was a wonder she put up with us back then.

"So you really think I'm strong?" Baljeet asked as we passed the Catholic monastery.

"You bet I do," Mishti replied. "Why, it'll only be a few years before you'll both be taller than me. And then I'll be an ugly, old maid."

I giggled. "You'll never be ugly, Mishti. But I am getting pretty tall. And strong. And fast. Did you see me yesterday? All the boys made teams, and we fought a war. They made me be British, though, and it wasn't fair. Still, I showed them. I was the general, and we beat them by a landslide."

Mishti looked me squarely in the eye this time, and her steady gaze was almost frightening. "You know, Kabra, I did see you. You're a natural born leader. It's a gift. I can tell - someday you will do great things."

"And me, too, right?" Baljeet piped up.

Mishti laughed again. "Yes, Baljeet, and you, too."

Satisfied, we both fell into a comfortable silence. My thoughts replayed what Mishti had said. Destined for great things? Me? My definition of "great" was winning a spitting contest. There wasn't much great about that.

For almost another mile, we continued along the old, dirt road. Thousands upon thousands of peasants, cattle, and even soldiers had tread along this path. Had anyone great ever walked here, though? Would I be the first? The dirt under my bare feet was soft, and I relished the feeling. In fact, it was on days like these that I felt truly alive. The monsoons were swiftly approaching, but until then, the summer days were still radiated by the sun. And all of creation knew it, too. To many, the daily ritual of gathering water from the river would be a pain, but I loved to join Mishti every now and again - especially on days like these. On each side, there were fields filled with rice paddies. Beyond that lay dense jungles and lush foliage. Birds the color of rainbows would flood the silence with sweet melodies as puffy clouds would skirt lazily across the sky. As far as the eye could see, the horizon was filled with the beautiful blues and greens of that picturesque morning. Nothing could have been more perfect.

Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind, and I shot a curious glance in Mishti's direction. "Hey, Mishti?"

"Mmm?"

"Why are you wearing your best sari?"

Mishti suddenly looked flustered, which was a sure sign that she wasn't telling us something. Mishti was _never_ flustered. In fact, that was one of the greatest things about her. She may have claimed to be a damsel-in-distress, but she was far from it. She was one of the most resilient people that I knew. Probably still is.

Truly, though, all three of us were wise beyond our years. Each of us had known considerable hardship before coming to the St. John's Home for Children. After Vidhya had died, I had spent several years on the streets before I, too, had fallen ill. It had been Mishti who had brought me to the home and had aided the nuns in nursing me back to health. When I had woken up, I had found myself staring into the face of an angel.

This time, though, she was avoiding my eye.

But before she could divert the subject entirely, Baljeet also began to hound her. "Yeah, that's right. This is your best sari, isn't it? You spent months working on it. Why are you wearing it to get water?"

Knowing that she couldn't continue to avoid the subject, Mishti cleared her throat and blushed slightly. "Well, I heard that, um, there might be a-a _demonstration _around here sometime today."

"A what?" I asked, clearly confused.

"A demonstration," Mishti repeated.

"And that's what?" Baljeet prodded.

"Well, it can be many things," Mishti continued as elusively as ever.

"But then what do you mean by it?" I inquired.

"Umm, well, you two won't quit, will you?" She looked exasperatedly at us both as we shook our heads, confirming her suspicions. "Fine, then. There's going to be a British demonstration around here this morning, okay? That means all the soldiers in their fancy uniforms will be parading by, and I want to at least look half-decent."

I looked down at my ragged, holey clothing. I would need a few more patches soon, maybe even a whole new outfit. I was growing fast. I found Baljeet also looking at his ragged clothing. Despite his scrawny frame, he was outgrowing his clothing, too. Both of us were also barefoot and probably would have easily blended in with the street rats of the city. I didn't mind, though. It was comfortable.

"What's the big deal, though?" I asked, still curious. "You trying to impress a boy, or something?"

Mishti looked insulted. "Of course not! I just want to look presentable, that's all. Really."

"Yeah, right," Baljeet muttered.

"That's enough, you two," Mishti snapped, something she never did.

"Fine, be that way. But Raj and I don't believe you."

Mishti rolled her eyes. "Honestly, am I the only one who still calls you Kabra?"

My multiple names were confusing, and at times, still are. In infancy, Vidhya had named me Kabra. Why, I never knew. I was always curious, but whenever I asked him, he simply responded by saying, "It's a good, Hindu name." I have a feeling he just liked the sound of it. Upon arriving at the orphanage, however, I became infamous for being a first-class rapscallion. My pranks had grayed more than a few saints' hairs. After a particularly devilish prank, Mother Margaret labeled me with a new name – Nagaraja or "King of Serpents." The name spread like wildfire, although I wasn't sure why I had received the name in the first place. Mishti had been the first to elaborate.

"In their religion, humans were tricked by a serpent. They see snakes as being crafty and mischievous. This was just her way of calling you a little devil." Upon seeing my stricken face, she had quickly added, "She meant it nicely, though. It's a term of endearment."

"Oh," had been my only reply. I didn't understand how calling someone a little devil could be seen as a term of endearment.

As the name was excessively long, Baljeet had been the very first to shorten my new nickname. He simply called me Raj. I liked it better that way. Nagaraja was too big a name for me, anyway. Baljeet's name, though, suited him even less than Nagaraja suited me. It meant "mighty, victorious." Being the scrawny, asthmatic kid that he was, I wouldn't have considered either one of those words as accurate depictions of him. Vidhya, the man who had taken me in as a child, was one of the few people that I knew whose name actually suited him. It meant "wisdom," which was entirely true. For as long as I had known him, he had constantly been spouting Hindu proverbs. Most of them had been extremely wise, although a few, such as "Can a monkey know the taste of ginger?" still mean absolutely nothing to me. Of the three of us, though, only Mishti's name had suited her. It meant "sweet," and that had certainly been true.

Sweet as she was, she still had a limit as to what she would suffer. She was finally fed up with our pestering.

"Seriously, though, if you two don't stop being little parasites, I'm going to ask Mother Anne to give you more chores," she threatened.

We both groaned. Then we tried the more practically approach. We groveled.

"Please, please, please don't do it, Mishti!" Baljeet pleaded.

"We'll stop bugging you if you don't," I negotiated.

"All right then," Mishti said, obviously satisfied. "No more mischief, and you'll be able to spend the rest of the day playing in the dirt like you always do."

Again, I spoke up. "Mishti, why don't you ever play with us?"

"Because," she sighed, "I have _chores _to do. Real ones, not the pitiful little odd jobs that Mother Anne gives you. Honestly, Kabra, she's too soft on you. She'd let you get away with murder."

I smiled charmingly, and Mishti chuckled. I had the awful habit of sweet talking my way out of anything. Not that I thought it was a bad thing.

By this time, we had almost reached the riverbank. As we came closer, however, a sound thundered down upon us. It was marching. Hundreds of feet pounding against the earth simultaneously.

Quickly, the three of us dove into the nearest bushes. After a few moments, the soldiers appeared on the fork in the road. There was a clearing nearby, and as we watched, the soldiers, in their ranks, marched into it before coming to an abrupt halt.

They were like nothing that I had ever seen. Clad in red coats, big boots, and shiny brass buttons, they were an awe-inspiring sight. Rifles could be seen at each of their sides.

Stiffly, they stood at attention. Not a muscle moved. Quickly, I snuck a peek at Mishti's face. She was staring at one of the ranks. Probably a cute boy. Again, I snuck a glance, but this time, I glanced at Baljeet. His face was conspicuously pale. Ah, right. He hated the British. He blamed them for the death of his parents.

Suddenly, a rotund, balding man appeared at the front of the ranks. Medals covered almost every inch of his uniform. Swiftly, he began to bark out commands. I was fascinated. I couldn't understand a word, but I could hear the power, the authority, in his voice. He was obviously in charge. After another moment of yelling out commands, he turned sharply on his heel, and I caught a glimpse of the hairy caterpillar above his lip. I couldn't help but let a giggle escape from my throat. Just as quickly, Mishti shushed me. It was a good thing that she did, because once the man had fallen silent, we could have heard a pin drop. In the silence, I heard a strange rasping sound. It sounded sort of like our old chicken when she'd had a cold. Mishti and I both glanced at Baljeet to see that he was wheezing. The excitement had aggravated his asthma.

"Are you okay?" Mishti asked as quietly as she could.

"Yeah," Baljeet whispered back. "I'm okay."

She nodded, knowing there was nothing else that she could do at the moment. Suddenly, a sound caught my attention, and it wasn't Baljeet's wheezing. It was more of a low hissing. I cocked my head to the side and guided my ear towards the sound. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. In fact, it was getting louder.

A slight rustle in an adjacent bush caught my eye, and I squinted. There. I let out a small gasp. It was a cobra. A king cobra. And the British man was marching straight towards it.

Oblivious, the man continued to proceed towards the deadly creature, and my breath caught in my throat. The cobra was resting on a rock, but the tall grass was partially covering it. I could tell that he was rattling his tail, but the man _still _didn't notice it. Was he blind?

I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, and I was afraid that Baljeet and Mishti could hear it. They didn't appear to see the cobra, either. Finally, when the man came so close to the cobra that it could have wrapped itself around his leg, I caught Mishti's attention.

"Look," I said, pointing a shaking finger in the cobra's direction.

She let out a soft gasp but gave no other response. What could we do?

Slowly, the cobra began to rise, its body swaying back and forth as it would to a snake charmer's music. A few of the soldiers' eyes widened. They could see it, too.

The snake's forked tongue played outside of its mouth before he sucked it back in. Slowly, the cobra arched its neck and began to recoil. This was it. It was going to strike. I couldn't watch.

"RUKHO!" a voice cried out. I opened my eyes before realizing that it had been _me_. I had launched myself out of the bushes, much to Mishti's dismay, and was lunging towards the snake with a stick in my hand. Where had the stick come from?

The British man whipped towards me and alarm spread across his face. He _still _didn't see the cobra. Instinctively, his hand reached to his side. That was where his gun was. A shiver ran down my spine, but I didn't stop. Really, though, I don't blame the man. I suppose that I must have looked quite frightening. In my lifetime, I had heard many tales about feral children, children raised by animals, and, I must say, I matched the description perfectly right then. My clothing was ragged and torn, I was barefoot, my curly hair was tussled and waving wildly in the air, and to top it off, I was charging straight at the man with a stick raised high above my head. The fact that I was shouting at him in Hindi probably didn't make things any better, either. The poor man probably thought that I was demonic.

The man called out to me, but, seeing as I didn't speak or understand English, his words meant nothing. Looking back, I suppose he must have been telling me to halt. Either way, I continued to proceed forward, but, unfortunately, the ruckus did not phase the cobra. Just as I reached the man, the snake lurched forward. I could almost see the fangs gleaming. At that moment, everything other than the snake and myself seemed to freeze. Every movement that snake made suddenly seemed ten times more pronounced. For a flash of a second, its eyes flicked towards me.

It was like staring death in the face.

Just as the glittering fangs connected with the man's rear end, I brought my stick down. Hard.

A crack resembling thunder filled the air. Well, it sounded like thunder to me, anyway. I doubt anyone besides the man and me even heard the sound.

It had been a direct hit. Even if I had rehearsed all my life for this moment, I could not have made a better hit.

The snake's jaw slacked before its entire body crumpled to the ground. Immediately, several other important looking officials rushed towards the first man and began leading him away. If the man had any venom in his system, which I was sure that he did, he needed medical attention right away. Still, I might have just prevented the snake from injecting anymore poison. I might have just saved a life.

I stood there, awkwardly, as the soldiers rushed the man away. I was still holding the stick above my head as I couldn't force myself to bring it down. A ripple suddenly began to work its way down the snake's body, but before anything else could happen, I brought me heel down on the snake's skull as hard as I could. There was a crushing sound, and the convulsions simmered. One last ripple shook the snake's body before it, finally, remained deathly still. Slowly, I lowered my arms. They were shaking violently. My mind still couldn't comprehend what had just taken place.

Pandamonium was breaking out among the ranks. The soldiers who remained were unsure of what to do, and some in the back still didn't know what had been going on. Mishti, being the brilliant girl that she was, quickly took the opportunity to emerge from the bushes to retrieve me. Desperately, she yanked my arm and pulled me back towards the road. I may have just saved the man's life, but we weren't going to take any chances. For all we knew, it was probably illegal for a colored boy to run savagely towards a white man while waving a stick high in the air. As we stumbled past the underbrush, we fell onto the road, and, abandoning our jugs, ran as quickly as we could back to the monastery.

Upon our arrival, we vowed not to mention the incident to anyone. We couldn't risk getting into more trouble. Unfortunately, not telling brought other troubles upon us. As we so desperately needed water, Mishti received a reprimanding for being so careless as to leave the jugs out by the river and was forced to return by herself to gather them. Even though we had been there also, only Mishti received a punishment. I felt bad about that, but she wouldn't hear any of it.

"You may have saved a man's life, Kabra. A punishment is nothing in comparison with that," she had told me.

During the next few days, the incident was never far from my mind. I was constantly wondering what had happened to the man and whether or not someone would come after me. I suppose that my 10-year-old mind was in overdrive, imagining every horrible fate that could befall me. It was quite pitiful, really. I had just saved a life, and now I feared for my own. Life can be cruel. As worried as I was, though, my childish mind was soon overcome with the temptations of fun and games. My troubles were soon forgotten. In fact, the next several weeks passed peacefully, and the incident was almost forgotten. To be honest, it probably would have forever remained ancient history if I hadn't been playing in the streets that day.

Once again, the sun beat down with an auspicious radiance. The monsoons were due any day, but until then, the boys were taking advantage of the opportune weather. Mother Anne had given us an old rag to use as a ball, and we had invented our own ingenious game with it. We were down to the last point. The last goal would win the game. It all depended on me.

With bated breath, my team waited. I had taken a moment to compose myself, but now, I was ready. The opposing team's thrower waited patiently. When he could see that I was ready, he let out an almost invisible smirk before throwing the ball into the air with as much strength as he could muster. My eyes followed every fluid movement that the ball made as it descended from the sky. I was ready.

Just as I was about to connect my arm with the ball, a holler interrupted our game.

"There he is!"

Distracted, I whipped around, and the ball landed squarely on my head. Rubbing the sore spot, I searched for the source of the voice. I was thoroughly shocked to discover the speaker. It was the rotund, British man. He was being carried by several soldiers, who all had a thin layer of perspiration covering their foreheads, in a litter. Several more armed men escorted the entourage.

Like a shot, the boys instantly scattered. Whatever trouble I had managed to get myself into, they wanted no part in it. Only the loyal Baljeet remained close by, hidden behind a garbage heap.

"Bring me to the boy," the man commanded the litter bearers.

As for me, I felt rooted to the ground. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. A nervous sweat broke out on my forehead. I was already red-faced from the game, but now, a new heat began to work its way across my face.

When the man finally reached me, he tried to sit up. "This," he told the men with him, "is the child who saved my life. We found him, boys."

Startled and confused by the English, my eyes began to dart back and forth between the men. Was I in trouble? They didn't _look_ upset. Of course, that didn't mean I was off the hook.

The man looked down at me. His eyes were kind, and his pudgy cheeks were a rosy red. He sort of reminded me of Vidhya. I'd only heard descriptions of the stereotypical grandfather, but he seemed to fit the bill.

"What's your name, son?" he asked in a deep, rich voice.

Petrified, I stared up at him. I had no idea what he was saying. I may have been bilingual, knowing both Hindi and Bengali, but I didn't know English. Now, I _really _wished I had listened when the nuns had tried to teach me.

The man's kind expression didn't fade. "Your name? Here – my name is General George Davidson." He pointed at me, "Now, what is your name?" He pronounced the words slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child, but it worked. I finally seemed to understand.

My name? "Nagaraja," I replied before realizing that wasn't right. "Kabra," I corrected myself. No, wait. I winced. I had no idea what I was doing.

"Nagaraja Kabra, hmm? Well, young man, I wanted to thank you for saving my life. That old cobra got me, but nothing can keep old George here off his feet for long." The man laughed, and I did, too, because I had no idea what else to do.

Suddenly, the door of the orphanage opened and Mother Margaret emerged. I could see Mishti and some of the other boys peeking out the door.

"Hello, sir," Mother Margaret welcomed him. "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She noticed the general talking to me and frowned. "Raja here didn't get himself into any trouble, did he now?"

"Oh, not at all, ma'am. In fact, the boy saved my life, and I wanted to thank him."

A look of disbelief spread across her face, but she quickly shook it off. "Nagaraja saved your life?"

"Yes, indeed he did. A couple of weeks ago he saved me from the likes of a king cobra. I guess you could say that I'm still recovering," he said as he pointed to his litter, "but, without this boy, it would have been much worse."

For the first time, Mother Margaret glanced at me, and she seemed to read the look of confusion on my face.

"Well, sir, if you'd like, we'd be glad to invite you inside."

The man glanced down at me again. "Now that you mention it, there would be a certain matter that I wouldn't mind discussing with you, if you don't mind."

Still flustered over having someone so important at her doorstep, Mother Margaret stammered out, "Of course, come right in."

It took several more minutes to get the man down from his litter and help him inside, but when he went in, I didn't attempt to follow. For the next half of an hour, the nuns and the general remained inside. Nervously, I paced the narrow, cobblestone street.

Baljeet, who had rejoined me, had come to his own conclusions. "Whatever they're talking about, it must be important. They've been in there a long time."

I bit my lip. "You don't think I'm in trouble, do you?" I asked nervously.

Mishti spoke up from behind me. "Of course not. You saved his life. He's not angry with you."

"But then, what are they talking about in there?" My nerves were getting the better of me again.

An uneasy look spread across Mishti's face. "I don't know."

After what seemed like an eternity, the general finally reemerged. The nuns also followed him out, and the first thing that they did was call me over.

Mother Anne bent down until she was eye-level with me. "Raja, the general is very, very thankful for what you did. We're all very proud of you." She paused, groping for words. "In thanks, he wants to do something for you."

I stared up at her, patiently waiting for her next words.

"He wants, well, he wants to take you to stay at his house. There, he can give you a good education, food, and nice clothing. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The words didn't register. Any sentence with both of the words "nice" and "clothing" together didn't apply to me.

Mother Margaret was still staring at me, waiting for my reply. And suddenly, it sunk in. Me living in the general's home. Eating his food. Wearing fancy clothing. Getting an education of all things.

Leaving the only home I had ever truly known.

I couldn't do that. Mishti and Baljeet, they were the only family that I'd ever had besides Vidhya. Even Mother Margaret in a bad mood was something I couldn't imagine living without. But leaving them? It was too much to comprehend.

Without me noticing, Mishti had crept up behind me. Silently, she bent over my shoulder and whispered in my ear. "Raja, go. This is your one chance. All of us – we want a way out." Her voice cracked slightly. "I've always known you were special. You can get out, make a difference in the world. Don't just do this for you, do this for all of us."

I looked up at her. Unconsciously, she had called me by the nickname that she loathed. I could see tears welling up in her eyes.

"But I can't just leave you," I whimpered desperately.

Mishti let out a bittersweet smile. "You'll still see us. Anytime you miss us, just come back. We won't be leaving anytime soon."

My eyes were wide. It seemed that everyone wanted me to go, except myself. I felt like I was being cornered. All these faces, all this pressure. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't.

I glanced back up at Mishti planning to tell her that I wouldn't do it, but something held me back. For the first time, I really saw her face. I glanced around at all the other children. It was like I was seeing each one of them in a different light. They weren't just my friends and playmates, they were survivors. Each one of them knew and had seen more than any child their age should ever have. The majority of them had lived on the streets at one point. A few had even survived plagues or massacres. All had lost family members - some had even witnessed them being mercilessly slaughtered. But, most of all, every single one of them had been shunned by society. Nobody, except for a few kind souls like the nuns, cared. The world had forgotten us. Could I change that? Could one person really make a difference? I wasn't sure, but right then, I decided that I had to try. For, if I didn't speak for those who couldn't, who would?

Silently, I made my decision. I turned my head towards Mishti and gave her a small nod. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she gave a small smile. I looked back at Mother Anne and, again, I nodded. She also smiled.

"Go, Raja. The general wishes to leave now. Go get your things," she told me hastily.

What - now? I had to leave now? So soon? I wanted to stay awhile longer, to spend just one more day with the people that I loved so dearly. I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come. I stood there gaping like a fish until I saw Mishti give me another encouraging look. Suddenly, I understood. If I didn't go now, the opportunity might never present itself again. What guarantee did I have that the general would even remember who I was by tomorrow?

As I climbed the stairs leading to the building, I suddenly saw everything in a different light. This was my home. The old, creaky steps. The wobbly, stiff beds. Even the cracked pots. It was everything that I had ever known, and here I was abandoning it. For another moment, I stared at the rooms, memorizing every crack in the wall, imprinting this place in my mind. I sighed. Reminiscing over the past would only prevent me from moving on into the future. I quickly ran up to the cramped bedroom that I shared with Baljeet, grabbed my few, meager belongings and walked back down the steps onto the street.

Just before I could join the general, Mishti grabbed my shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. "You come back soon, you hear?"

I nodded before falling into her tight embrace. I don't know how long we stayed that way, in each others arms, but I remember Mishti finally pushing me away. Even then, I couldn't leave. From there, it was all a blur - one tearful goodbye after the other. The nuns, my playmates, even the boys who had annoyed me to death. Every one of them meant more to me than I could fully comprehend. Finally, Mother Margaret gently pried me apart from Baljeet and guided me towards the patiently waiting general.

Finally, we set out, and I found myself dragging my feet beside the man's litter. Everyone seemed to be in merry spirits, except me. I couldn't help but sneak quick peaks over my shoulder time and time again. How could I ever say goodbye? Everything just felt so... so _strange_. The course of my life had just been altered in a matter of hours.

Only when they were finally out of sight did I fully focus on what was before me. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I didn't even know where we were going. Everything had happened so fast that the nuns hadn't even remembered to tell me. For all I knew, we could be setting out for England. I was petrified, but yet, at the same time, I found myself inexplicably excited. For the first time, I had hope. I could hope to do more than just survive. My days would be more than just scraping along for food. I didn't have to fear the day that I would be back on the streets. My dreams and aspirations would finally be allowed to take wing. Maybe I could even make Mishti proud. Maybe I would be great someday. Now, I could finally do what I had never done before - know that something better was on the horizon.

~o~

Surprised? I can tell. You were probably expecting a little devil with horns and a pitchfork, not a child with dreams of changing the world. My apologies for disappointing. I played, I laughed, I cried – I was normal. Even street life had not hardened me so. I was not immune to emotions. Not yet, anyway.

As a child, I could even have been described as innocent, mischievous - maybe even naïve. I was rather predictable, I know. Doing the right thing. Saving a man's life in return for the greatest opportunity that my meager existence had ever known. Yes, it was all rather predictable, but without that life-changing experience, I would still be living on the streets somewhere, or even less than that – dead. Rather grim, it's true. But when one has seen the things that I have, when one has lived through the grief and despair that life so often grants us, one is so often stripped of optimism. As for the story, well, all I can say is this: patience. Only in fairytales does a man transform into a monster overnight.

* * *

**For all those who are a bit lost or maybe "historically challenged" (I use that term liberally), this story takes place during the British Raj. England had control over India for a vast period of time, hence the arrival of Gandhi later on. For artistic purposes, I have chosen to place Nagaraja during the time of Queen Victoria's reign. Ian and Natalie are too "Englishized" to have ever been connected to their Indian heritage. Even Vikram appears to have been raised in England. For this reason, I have chosen to place Nagaraja during a period when India and England were closely connected, but at a time far enough in the past that the modern Kabras don't pay much attention to their past. Later on, British politics will also come into play.**


	3. Chapter 2

There was only one thing that I hated just as much as snakes: bowties. Ironically, as of now, I am never seen without one. But unfortunately for my younger self, my new life with the general was filled to the brim with those irritating choke collars. Living the high life was not quite what I had expected it to be. English lessons, posture lessons, etiquette lessons – they replaced my days of leisure, doing nothing but playing mischievous pranks on the nuns. My life had been drastically altered from my street rat existence. I would have been almost unrecognizable to anyone who had once known me.

I did not, in fact, go to England. England came to me. The general and his wife, Lady Eloise Davidson, a plump, motherly sort of woman, welcomed me with open arms into their obstreperous, Victorian palace in the upper class side of Calcutta. Neither were in their prime, and with no children of their own, they began to treat me as the son they had never had. They spoiled me, giving me the best of everything that they had to offer. Never have I met any other British aristocracy who would have done the same. If I had saved any other man, I would have been fortunate to receive a few rubles in return. But taking a colored, Indian orphan and treating him as a son? The very idea was preposterous.

Whether I was lucky or blessed, I do not know, but either way, my world was transformed. I had gone from playing in mud pies to dining at fancy tea parties, and the change was not entirely welcome. The Davidsons had taken it upon themselves to "civilize" me, but I suppose the saying is true - you can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the boy. I was still my mischievous self, causing ruckus wherever I went, and even though I gave the lady more than a few headaches, I could tell that they both enjoyed the added excitement in their lives. They were also surprisingly tolerant. I still visited the orphanage from time to time; I would even sneak off to meet with Baljeet every so often. We were, after all, in the same city, even if the two sides we lived on seemed like separate worlds.

Two years passed of bowties and frequent bathing before anything truly significant occurred. Though I did not realize it at the time, it was the first step inevitably leading me to a life intertwined with that of that cursed family, the Cahills.

~o~

_**June 9, 1878**_

"Why, aren't you an adorable little darling?" the rotund, fluffily dressed woman crooned.

I forced out a sticky smile. Cheek pinchers. I hated them. The woman reached out, and I cringed. It was coming; I could feel it. But to my surprise and delight, all she did was pat me on the head. I let out a sigh of relief; that had been a close one.

The woman, in all her jeweled and lacy splendor, turned to Aunt Eloise, as she insisted I call her. "What a precious little boy you've got here, Lois. I'll be honest – at first, I was rather unsure of it all. When I heard that you had taken in a street rat, I was afraid you had lost all common sense! I said to myself, 'Why, Eloise has finally lost it!' but I must say, you've done a fine job with him. He's quite the British gentlemen; no more heathen nonsense left in him, I presume." She smiled radiantly at Eloise. "Just further evidence of all the good Britain has been doing for its colonies."

I scowled. Of all the things that irked me about the high life, the British attitude of superiority bothered me the most. I hated how they acted as though I were slightly less than human, needing to embrace British culture before I could be properly civilized.

Aunt Eloise, sensing my irritation, smiled warmly, trying to break the ice. "Well, Eleanor, we are both very proud of Nagaraja. He's such a bright boy; he's already fluent in English. Why, he's even trilingual, bless his heart!"

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Nagaraja? He doesn't have an English name?"

Aunt Eloise blushed slightly. "Well, he does, but we don't use it often. George insisted on the name Alexander because of his obsession with famous generals who are long dead and no good to anyone anymore." She rolled her eyes. "But we really don't call him by it; it's just for special circumstances."

"Well –" the woman began, and I could feel a speech coming about the benefits of having a proper, Christian name and yada, yada, yada. I didn't plan to stick around.

I wandered away from the women, searching for someone my own age. The Davidsons were hosting an elaborate party for all of their elite friends, but most were about their age, leaving me stuck in a stuffy suit, listening as they discussed politics and who knows what else. The general was off at a table with several of his white-haired counterparts, no doubt talking military strategy. Women were clustered around tables, leaning their heads close together, discussing the latest juicy gossip. I began tapping my foot impatiently as I surveyed the room. There had to be _someone _interesting here.

The room itself was magnificent, and two years ago, I would have been awestruck. The finest marble covered the ground, enormous windows veiled with thick, plush drapes adorned the walls, and intricate paintings and other works of art were showcased for all to see. A gorgeous grand piano with ivory keys, Aunt Eloise's pride and joy, completed the picture. Right now, though, I didn't particularly care. Two years ago, my jaw would have been on the ground, but I had grown used to the extravagance. All I cared about was the food.

My eye caught the refreshment table, and I ducked towards it. Servants were waiting on the tables, but I was sure they wouldn't mind me swiping a pastry or two. I stood nonchalantly next to the table, my back facing it, my hands reaching behind me for one of the sweets. I kept my expression blank, as innocent's as an angel's, making sure not to draw attention to myself. My fingers grasped the object of my desire, wrapped around it, and I quickly pulled my hand back. I twisted around, away from the crowd, and stuffed the food in my mouth before anyone could catch me.

"You like sweets, too?"

I whirled around, my cheeks puffed out, a look of pure guilt splashed across my face. "Fwhat?" I asked, trying to keep the food from spewing out of my mouth.

The girl standing in front of me giggled. She was pretty, with golden locks piled high on her head, curious blue eyes, and a pointy nose that curved upwards. "Sometimes, I steal sweets, too," she whispered.

I finally swallowed the food that had refused to go down before flashing her my famous, pearly-white smile. "Yeah," I agreed. "The pastries are good. You should try them. And besides, there's not much else to do." I cocked my head in the gossiping women's direction.

"I know," the girl sighed. "It's awful. I'm probably the only girl around that doesn't enjoy sipping tea all day." She smiled at me before extending her hand. "I'm Charlotte."

"Raja," I replied, meeting her handshake, grinning shamelessly.

"Charlotte! What do you think you're doing, young lady?"

We both turned at the sound of the voice. And older version of Charlotte hurried towards us, her dress's ruffles rustling as she went.

"Charlotte, get away from there. You can't keep wandering off." She grabbed Charlotte's arm and eyed me. "I don't want you talking to strangers; heaven forbid you pick up any barbaric manners," she scolded, giving me a dirty look as she pulled Charlotte away from the table and back towards the crowd.

I stood there, in shock, not quite sure what had just happened. Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder, giving me an apologetic smile. I turned away, unwilling to let her see how much that had stung. Was it because of my skin? Did not being white suddenly make me some kind of horrible monster? Would I have to prove to every Brit I met that I wasn't some wild, barbaric child?

The encounter left me feeling discouraged, and I decided to spend the rest of the party sulking. Even if there were a few other children my age, their parents would most likely be appalled at the thought of their children socializing with me. I found a lonely chair at an empty table and plopped down on it, folding my arms across my chest as I stared out at the crowd. There wasn't much to see, and it wasn't long before I began to grow restless. I pulled at my collar, loosening it just a bit, before slumping in my chair. As long as no one noticed my atrocious posture, I would be all right. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and felt something slip through my fingers. I dug deeper, hoping to find it again. My fingers closed in on the smooth object, and I pulled it out. It was a button. To pass the time, I began to flick it up in the air with my thumb. It was actually fun.

I smirked as I leaned forward, eyeing the back of an old lady's head, intent on my target. I pulled my thumb back, getting ready to strike my innocent victim, but it slipped. My thumb sprung forward and hit the button in the wrong place. It flung up in the air before falling to the floor, eons away from its intended target, and rolled across the floor. I sprung up, determined to retrieve my one source of entertainment. I scurried after it, my eyes never leaving the rolling button. I kept going, chasing it, but before I could catch it, a foot came down, ending its journey across the vast marble floor.

I glanced up. A man with hair the color of fire stared down at me. He had an equally flaming mustache with matching, bushy eyebrows and brown eyes that twinkled. His attire was not of poor quality, but he was still obviously out of place.

"This yours, lad?" he asked, bending over to pick up the button.

I nodded wordlessly. His accent was funny.

The man flicked the button in the air before handing it back to me with a wink. "Take good care of it, now."

I nodded again, wide eyed, probably giving him the impression that I was a mute.

He glanced down at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Say there, lad. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find General George Davidson, would you?"

I looked back at the crowd and searched for the general, finding him still deep in discussion with his fellow army men. I pointed, directing the man's attention to the general.

"Thanks, lad," he said, ruffling my hair before wandering off.

I watched him as he approached the general. The man walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. The general glanced up, and a look of surprise crossed his face. He immediately stood up and gave the man a hearty handshake before excusing himself from the group. The rest of the men quickly returned to their conversation, but as the man and the general slipped out into one of the hallways, my curiosity got the better of me. I followed suit, cautiously entering the hallway after them. I jumped slightly as a door slammed, and my head jerked at the sound. The study. That's where they were.

As silently as possible in those rackety dress shoes I had been forced to wear, I slid towards the door and pressed my ear against it.

"-long journey," I heard.

"-good news?"

I frowned in frustration; only snippets of their conversation were coming through. I reached out my hand, daring to twist the knob just a little. Softly, I turned the handle and pushed the door open ever so slightly, just so that the sound would come through.

"- about Julian?"

"Yes," I could hear the man reply bitterly. "What else is new?"

"What does he say?"

"He wants more power, nothing unusual. He fears that the Janus have been gaining too much of it in the Raj."

"The Janus? Everyone knows it's the Lucians who have the control."

"Yes, I told him that, but he's still nervous. He's afraid that there might still be remnants of the Mughal family around, waiting for the opportunity to strike."

"Well, tell him that things are completely under control. If it's the Janus he's worried about, then I'll make sure to eliminate the problem before it could possibly get out of hand," the general declared.

"You had better," the man replied. "The people are already dissatisfied. It would be an awful shame if another rebellion broke out."

Both men fell into silence.

"Yes," the general agreed. "Those were… terrible times. Very terrible, indeed."

The red-haired man raised his voice. "I just wish Julian would get it through that thick head of his that we don't need any more bloodshed!"

"As do I," the general sighed wistfully, "but we both know my cousin. He is not one to risk power for peace."

"Aye," the man agreed.

"But how go other Lucian matters? What news do you bring from London?"

"Ah," the man sighed. "Nothing unusual. Plenty of backstabbing, trickery, and lies. It never changes." He paused for a moment. "Oh, but there is another matter which needs attending to."

"Yes?"

"Julian – he… he…"

"He what?"

The man lowered his voice, and I had to strain to hear him. "I am afraid he is having doubts about you, George. He is afraid that you are getting too old, that you'll let something slip. And you don't even have a successor. He's afraid that this will be just the opportunity that the Janus are looking for."

"Killian, I know that. I'm not as young as I used to be, and Julian tends to retire his agents rather early. I understand what is at stake. But," the general added, his voice sounding rather pleased, "I have a backup plan."

"Oh?"

"Nagaraja. The boy is brilliant; he will be my successor."

"The boy? But he is not even a Lucian!"

"Does that make a difference? My mother was one, and he is still a better strategist than I am."

"He is a rather crafty fellow. I caught him in the act of harassing a poor, innocent woman."

"That's him, all right. You should see him at chess. I sat down with him one day, back when he barely spoke a word of English, and within the hour, he had already picked up on the game. It will only be a few more years before he can beat me."

Killian gave a low whistle. "That _is_ impressive."

"I'm telling you, he is exactly what the Lucians need. I know that Eloise will have a fit when she discovers what I have in mind for him – she abhors anything even relating to the Cahills – but I have faith in him. He could be the key to finally uniting our treacherous branch."

I listened, spellbound, as they talked about me. Brilliant? The key to uniting their branch? What branch? Who were the Lucians, and what did I have to do with them? So many questions, so few answers.

A tickle began to work its way up my nose, and I froze. No. I could _not _sneeze. Not here, anyway. I reached up, intending to grab my nose to prevent myself from the inevitable, but before I could, it slipped out.

_Achoo!_

Silence penetrated the room before the general finally spoke up. "Come in here, Raja."

Obediently, I pushed the door open and shuffled in, staring at the ground, refusing to meet their eyes.

"I suppose you've been there the whole time?"

I nodded slowly, still not looking up.

"Ah, you are a sly lad, aren't you now?" Killian spoke up with a laugh.

The general sighed. "Nagaraja Kabra, your curiosity will be the death of you someday."

I risked a peek up at his face. He smiled at me, shaking his head slightly. Good. He wasn't angry. That realization left me feeling suddenly bold.

"Who are the Lucians?" I dared to ask.

The general shook his head again. "I suppose I'll have to tell you now, won't I?" He leaned back in his chair, taking his jolly good time. "Well, you see, a long time ago, there was a very special family. Each of the children had a special "gift," I guess you could say. And each of these children grew up to be very powerful, as well as their descendants. Killian and I – we're descendants of the oldest child, Luke."

"But what do I have to do with this?" I questioned curiously.

The general let out a deep breath, not quite sure how to answer the question. "Raja – how can I put this?" He paused for another moment, groping for the right words. "You are a very special boy. I suppose I've known this since the day I met you. Someday, I believe that you will be capable of doing great things. My family's special skill is logic and strategy, as well as leadership. You are extraordinarily gifted in all of these areas. You would make the perfect Lucian."

"So, what do I have to do?" I asked somewhat nervously. Was there some test I had to pass? Was this some sort of secret society or something? I really had no idea who this family was or what on earth it was that they did.

"Raja," the general pleaded earnestly. "I want you to forget everything you just heard - for now. Go back out there, have a good time, and continue to be your usual rambunctious self. Right now, I don't want to place any unnecessary burdens on your shoulders. In fact, it would have been better if you'd never even heard our conversation in the first place. Someday, in the distant future, the day may come when I bring this up again. But until then, there is absolutely nothing that you need to do. Just keep being yourself; don't let this little discussion change a thing. Go now," he said, shooing me out the door. "Go and keep doing exactly what you were doing before."

I turned obediently, not quite ready to leave yet, but knowing that I was no longer welcome. I walked out the door and closed it gently behind me. I stood there for a moment, soaking in everything that I had just heard. It was a lot to take in. I needed somewhere to go, and returning to the party wouldn't suffice. Then, it hit me. I needed Baljeet; he would listen to me. Even if I couldn't tell anyone else, it wouldn't matter if I told him. It wasn't like anyone would expect him to know any secrets.

I ran down the hallway, not caring if anyone heard me, and turned into one of the unoccupied storage rooms. Several exits had been built into that room, and I had discovered them not long after my arrival. Whenever I felt like getting away from the stuffiness, I would use that as a passage to temporary freedom. I carefully walked towards them and slipped out one of the secret back doors, my usual escape route. From there, I was free. I ran through the back gardens and onto the path that I had worn down, the one that led into the jungle.

I cut through my specially designed shortcuts, past thick underbrush, carefully avoiding any potentially dangerous plants or animals, until I passed into a clearing. It was a beautiful place – a small creek running through it, large trees hanging overhead, small clusters of flowers filling it with a sweet fragrance. At the very center of the clearing was a large boulder, and that was where Baljeet and I would meet.

Today, he had promised to come, but I wasn't sure when he would arrive. I climbed up the boulder and lay down, swinging my feet over the edge. I kicked off my shoes and pulled at my tie, pulling it off all of the way. This was the life – my own personal paradise. Living like the rich certainly beat living in the slums, but sometimes the pressure forcing me to conform was just too much. I needed this time here, and whenever Baljeet came late, I would take advantage of the opportunity for the quietness, just nature and myself.

I closed my eyes, soaking in the sun's brilliant rays as it warmed my face. Birds sang in the distance, and the sound of the flowing creek had a soothing effect. I could almost feel myself dozing off, could feel myself forgetting whatever it was that I had been worried about.

A shadow passed over me, and I blinked. There was Baljeet, standing over me with a smirk plastered across his face.

"You're blocking my sun," I moaned.

He grinned and poked my side with his foot. "Get up, lazybones."

I groaned as I tried to get up, grabbing the arm that he had offered to me.

"Why, don't you look all fancy schmanzy?" he teased.

"Ugh, don't remind me," I grumbled.

"Hey, be grateful," he remarked. "I'd kill to be in your place."

I sighed. "Yeah, I know. It's great and all, but sometimes I just wish that I could spend a day rolling in the mud, you know?"

Baljeet laughed. "Okay, okay, I get it. Now, did you bring me anything to eat?"

I grimaced as I patted my pockets. "Sorry. I stole a few pastries, but I ate them all."

"You pig," Baljeet said playfully. "I was looking forward to those fancy sweets all day. Whoever your baker is, he's fantastic. Way better than Mishti, anyway." Baljeet made a face.

I sighed as I leaned back against the rock. "I'm sorry; my mind was other places."

Baljeet joined me as he sat down. "What's eating you, my friend?"

"Just this conversation I overheard. This guy showed up at the party and had this big private discussion with the general."

"And let me guess," Baljeet interrupted, "you had to be the great, adventurous spy and listen in. I'm betting you were even eavesdropping with your ear pressed against the door, as usual."

I grinned at him. "I did, but it didn't work. I had to open the door a little."

He pushed my shoulder. "You're stupid, you know that?"

"Yes," I laughed.

"Anyway, you were saying?" he prodded.

"Well, they just had this big conversation about some family or something that's always fighting, and then they started talking about me being the "key" to solving the problem." I glanced at him, trying to read his expression.

Baljeet looked at me. "That's good, isn't it?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "The general caught me –"

"No surprise there," Baljeet muttered.

I ignored him. "-and he told me to forget about everything that I'd heard. He said that if anything happens, it will be a long time from now." I shrugged. "I don't know whether it's good or bad that he thinks I can help his family." I thought of all the things the general had said about me and decided to keep my mouth shut. I didn't think that Baljeet would have appreciated hearing all my wonderful accomplishments and attributes. We had both matured a lot in the past two years, and he wasn't the type to allow jealousy over my easy life to get in the way of our friendship, but I didn't want to rub it in his face, either.

"Well," Baljeet began, "I'd just do what the general said – forget about it. There's nothing that you can do, and besides, things change. In one year, five years, things can happen. Besides," he said, flashing me a grin, "the general might finally realize how dumb you are and decide you'd be no help to anyone."

I punched his arm, and he winced, rubbing it protectively. "Hey, watch it!"

"My most sincere apologies," I replied with a roll of my eyes. "I forgot how weak and pitiful you are."

"I am not!" he countered defensively.

"You know," I cut in, smirking, "every time I see you, I always seem to hear the same thing. 'I am not!'"

His eyes narrowed at my spot-on imitation. "That's because you always call me weak!"

"That's because you are."

"I am-" Baljeet bit his tongue as I smirked. "Well, every time I see you, all I get are a bunch of smirks."

I smirked.

"See?" he exclaimed. "Right there!"

I kept smirking.

"Would you stop it already?"

The smirk remained plastered on my face, continuing to annoy him to death.

"Gah," he finally spat, giving up on me. "You're too smug, you know that?"

"I know," I replied with a laugh. I turned my back to him, once again facing the jungle. On the other side of that wall of trees was my old life, the city slums, the people clothed in nothing but rags. I turned back, not wanting to think about that. "So, what's new at the orphanage? How's Mishti?"

"Oh, she's fine," Baljeet said with a slight smile. "She's vowed never to speak to me again, but other than that, she's fine."

I chuckled. "Nice. What'd you do to her?"

"We put a snake in her bed."

I burst out laughing. "I wish I had been there to see that!"

"Oh, it was good. The snake was at the bottom of the bed, and Mishti didn't notice it until she got in. You could hear her scream from the kitchen."

"I bet she was tickled pink."

"She was; she hasn't said a word to me for the past three days."

"I'm proud of you, Baljeet. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you."

"Well, things have gotten dull since you left, so I've taken it upon myself to liven them up. Speaking of you leaving, when's your next "visit" going to be?"

"I think it's tomorrow. Aunt Eloise promised it as compensation for attending her wretched party."

"I see," Baljeet replied, slightly amused. "You know, I miss our little escapades. You were actually a pretty good leader; I can see what the general was talking about."

I glanced at him in surprise. "_You _thought I was a good leader? I thought you said that all of my plans were complete failures and ended horribly!"

"Your _plans _did, but you were still a good leader. Why else would we have kept going along with you?"

I snorted. "I'll have you know that almost all of my plans were complete successes."

Baljeet raised an eyebrow. "If I recall correctly, we were almost always caught and punished by the nuns."

"_I _wasn't, and besides," I added with a grin, "if we got punished, then that meant that my plan was a success, and our mission was accomplished."

Baljeet gave a frustrated sigh. "Yes, _you _never got in trouble. Somehow you always weaseled your way out of it. You'd give them that angelic smile of yours and make your eyes all big, and suddenly all the nuns started feeling sorry for you."

I gave a half-hearted shrug. "My gift, my curse."

"A curse? Seriously, Raj, you could charm a snake." He glanced at me, his gaze suddenly serious. "That's something else about you – you have charisma. Maybe the general's dreams for you aren't so far-fetched after all."

I snorted and looked away.

"Isn't there _anything_ that you want to do?" he asked curiously.

"I suppose," I replied with a shrug. "I've always wanted to learn to ride a horse."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Doesn't the general have a whole stable of horses?"

"Yes. He promised to start teaching me to ride one next week."

Baljeet gave me a look. "Then that doesn't really count. Don't you have any _real _goals?"

"Horseback riding counts as a real goal," I countered defensively. "But I guess, besides that, I'm not really sure. When I left the orphanage, I had this dream of doing something for all the people that I left behind…" My voice trailed off. "I suppose I _do _have goals; I just don't know what they are yet."

"Fair enough," Baljeet answered neutrally.

"What about you?" I inquired, intent on getting the attention away from myself.

He sighed slightly, looking down, averting my gaze. "It's kind of stupid, really."

"What is?"

"Promise me you won't laugh?"

"Sure, if you just tell me whatever it is already."

Baljeet took a deep breath before exhaling slightly. "I want to be a doctor." He cringed slightly, waiting for me to start laughing.

The idea sunk in, seeming anything but foolish. "You'd make a good one, Baljeet."

"You really think so?" he asked, genuinely curious. "You think I could actually do it?"

"I think so," I replied. "You're probably the smartest person I know; you know a ton of stuff that nobody else even cares about."

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I know that some people would tell me I could never do it." He glanced over at me. "You know, being me and all. But I want to do something more. I want to prove that you don't have to be rich, born into the right family, or even British to make a difference in the world." He grinned sheepishly at me. "I've always had this secret dream of finding a cure for asthma - that would save me a lot of trouble - but even more than that, I want to go to London to study someday; I've even gotten the nuns to start teaching me English."

"You're learning English?" I gawked, and he nodded. "All right, let's hear it."

He bit his lip nervously before inhaling deeply. "Keep a stiff upper lip and all that!"

I couldn't help but burst out laughing, grabbing my sides to keep them from exploding. "Your accent's terrible!"

His smile faded, and he looked down dejectedly. "See? I told you that it was stupid."

"No, not at all," I admonished, inwardly chastising myself for laughing at him. I couldn't help but grin stupidly. "I can just picture you as a doctor, all serious with one of those ugly beards." I struck a pose of fake seriousness, and Baljeet cracked a smile. "Really, though," I replied, trying to patch things up, "you'd make a great doctor." I looked down at the ground. "At least _you _know what you want to do with your life," I muttered so softly that he didn't hear.

For a moment, we sat in silence, and I stared out at the vast jungle and the horizon that seemed to stretch out forever and ever.

"What's this?" Baljeet asked curiously, finally breaking the silence, holding up my abandoned bowtie.

I glanced back at him and groaned. "Death. Don't ever wear one."

Baljeet smirked. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

I finally stood up, stretching lazily, tired of all the talking. "Come on, let's do something." I pointed towards the stream. "How about skipping some stones?"

"Don't you have a party to get to?" Baljeet demanded skeptically.

"Ah, as long as I show my face when the guests leave, nobody cares."

"Whatever you say," Baljeet complied begrudgingly. He stood up and eyed the drop from the boulder to the ground.

"Scared?" I challenged.

"No," Baljeet retorted. "I'm simply calculating the drop and possible injuries from impact."

"Sure," I said, rolling my eyes. "Nerd," I added under my breath.

"What was that?" he asked sharply.

"Nothing," I replied innocently, giving him a sweet smile. I jumped off of the boulder and looked back to see if Baljeet would follow. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually followed suit, his fear of being called a chicken outweighing his fear of heights.

We split up, beginning to comb the creek's edge for smooth stones. My gaze scanned the rockbed before falling upon the crystal-clear water. A boy in a silky suit with sleek, jet-black hair stared back at me. I knew that it was me, but for some reason, he seemed almost unrecognizable. Who was I? Was I Raja the street rat, or was I Alexander the Great, future leader and world visionary? I didn't know what to think anymore.

My mind was jostled out of its thoughts as a pebble conked me on the back of the head. I turned, rubbing my sore spot tenderly, and glared at Baljeet, who was staring at me, flashing a sly grin. I rolled my eyes and returned to combing the creek's bank. And what about Baljeet? He didn't have any special privileges or extra pressure, but he still had his goals, his noble ambitions. But what was I supposed to do? Would I simply continue to live life sucking on a silver spoon? I didn't want that, not when so many of the people that I cared about suffered, but everyone seemed to expect so much from me. And, despite what the general had told me to do, his words continued to replay over and over again in my mind and were soon joined by Mishti's words from two years earlier.

_Will do great things. Brilliant. The key. _

All these things said one thing: Nagaraja Kabra was destined for greatness. And truly, no matter what the general had said, those words would never stop echoing in my head. For memory is crafty fellow; it forgets what should be remembered and remembers what is better left forgot. And the general, despite his vast wisdom, was foolish in asking me to forget; for it is always much easier said than done.


	4. Chapter 3

_**April 4, 1883**_

"This is it, Raj. You're going down."

"Me? Do you need spectacles? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, your arm is the one 'going down.'"

Baljeet glared at me from across the weathered wooden table, and I grinned. We were in the middle of a classic game, one that men of all ages used to display their superior strength and muscle power, and one that women, especially ones like Mishti, rolled their eyes at in disgust.

Arm wrestling – the greatest sport known to man.

At seventeen, we had both outgrown our childish games of hide-and-seek and harassing members of the female species.

Well, mostly.

Even then, the temptation was at times too great to resist. I had passed the stage of sticking frogs in people's underclothes, but there were still a few ladies – namely Mishti – that I loved poking with a stick.

"N-no, Raja," Baljeet muttered breathlessly. He was practically panting, and a thin bead of perspiration had broken out across his forehead. I could even see the muscles in his body tense up due to the strain, sort of reminding me of an ox pulling a plow.

"I'm f-finally going to w-win," he whispered hoarsely.

I flashed him a lopsided grin. We were fighting it out on the orphanage's kitchen table with Mishti being our only human audience. Not that she was paying much attention. She was trying to cook supper, occasionally throwing a morsel to the old dog lying at our feet, both of them doing their best to ignore our little dual.

"Forget it, Jeet," I responded coolly, sounding as though the whole thing was boring me to death. Our arms were still at a ninety degree angle, but it was obvious that Baljeet was almost worn out. While he was sweating and straining, his other arm gripping the table as though his life depended on it, I was casually straddling my chair looking as though I was about to fall asleep.

I yawned dramatically and made a big show of covering my mouth before stretching out my left arm. I was mid-stretch when I caught Mishti's eye. She was standing over the stove stirring a spoon in a bowl, and I gave her a quick wink. She rolled her eyes and turned back to her soup. I glanced at Baljeet's pained expression and reached into my trouser pocket, pulling out a sparking, silver pocket watch. I clicked it open and stared at the clock's face. It had been long enough now.

"Time's up, Jeet." I flashed him a sympathetic smile. "Better luck next time."

With a small surge of power, I slammed his arm down on the table.

"Come on, Raj!" Baljeet moaned desperately.

I let go of his arm and flexed my fingers. Admittedly, they were a bit sore. "I have to hand it to you – you're getting better. A few more rounds, and I might even break into a sweat."

Baljeet glared at me, cradling his sore arm. "What's the point? You'll always win."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But you'll never know until you try."

His dark eyes gave me an incredulous stare, his unruly black mop cascading over his eyebrows. "You honestly think that I could beat you?"

I stared down at my shiny black shoes, fixating my gaze on a nonexistent scuff, refusing to meet his eyes – or answer his question. Really, what was I supposed to say? I wasn't going to lie to him, but I honestly did not want to voice the truth aloud.

It had only been a few years ago that we had been similar heights and sizes, able to wear the same clothes. Baljeet had always been a bit frailer – skinner, too – but neither one of us had been at a great disadvantage. I'd even managed to pass him off as myself once or twice to naïve adults, when I'd dressed him right and messed his hair a bit. But after we had turned fourteen, we'd both known that would never happen again.

While Baljeet had been stuffing his face in the desperate hope that he'd start to fatten up, I'd been shooting up like a reed. At first, there wasn't a huge difference in our heights, but after about a year, you'd have to have been as blind as a bat not to notice the stark contrast between us. In a period of two years, everything about us twisted and contorted into something virtually unrecognizable.

Baljeet had actually grown fairly tall, much to his delight, but had barely put on a pound, leaving him as thin and wiry as ever. He was still not used to his gangly legs and at times could be rather awkward and clumsy, but during those moments when he finally seemed to have it all together, he could run like an antelope. I, on the other hand, grew not only taller, but broader, seeming to thrive on the rich food that my lavish lifestyle had to offer. The Davidsons' baker became my best friend during those years.

But by now, I had almost scaled six feet and was still growing, as many had assured me. It left me feeling rather out of place, though. It wasn't extremely hard to find Europeans of my size and stature, but my skin color ended any similarity there. I was clearly no European, and like they say, a leopard can't change its spots. But on the other hand, even among my own people, I stood out like a sore thumb. My European clothes, education, and apparent "worldliness" made people somewhat leery of me, as though I were some fascinating but equally odd foreign species. And to add the cherry on top, my size was intimidating. I wasn't especially huge, but compared to my traditionally shorter counterparts, I was definitely noticeable, and not necessarily in a good way.

It had made me wonder who on earth my parents might be and if I looked anything like them. Mishti, ever the romanticist, had concocted a grandiose tale to satisfy my curiosity. According to her, my father had been the descendant of the powerful – and large - leader of a Sikh Misl, one of the mighty Sikh provinces, but had fallen in love with a beautiful Hindu girl from another caste. Despite their forbidden love, they had married and run away together, abandoning their rigid rules and regulations, and had set out for Calcutta. But along the way, he was hunted down by the girl's angry family and had been killed in an act of vengeance, leaving my mother alone and desperate. With a heavy heart, she had left me in a street, hoping and praying that someone would take pity on her poor, innocent son.

I had laughed for a solid five minutes after hearing her tale and had decided right there and then to accept the fact that I was simply a freak of nature.

"You two are too concerned with being 'manly.'" Mishti said, finally speaking up. "Who's the strongest? Well, I can knock out five guys with one fist! Oh, boohoo, I can't beat Raja at arm wrestling!"

I snickered at her priceless imitation, but Baljeet just glared. Seemingly immune to his venomous stare, Mishti whirled around, one hand on her hip and the other whipping her spoon in the air. "All you men ever do is sit around preening your feathers like a peacock, making complete and utter fools of yourself." By now, she was animatedly waving the spoon back and forth, and I felt a few drops of soup splatter on my face. She gave us both a disgusted glance before returning to her soup. "And you wonder why I never got married."

Baljeet and I exchanged a look, and I gave him a sly grin. His eyebrows raised in response. "Yes, and you're becoming more and more like Mother Margaret every day."

Instantly, she spun around, flinging the spoon around like a weapon. "I oughtta cover you in soup for that remark, you smart mouth."

I quickly ducked just as Baljeet let out a laugh. "Do it, Mishti! Go ahead, do it!"

It was upon sound judgment that I shielded myself with my arms. "Kidding, kidding, Mishti! You know I didn't really mean it!" I pleaded. "You're not like Mother Margaret at all. I mean, come on, you're young and beautiful."

"Uh, Raj," Baljeet started in a low voice, "you do realize that Mother Margaret is standing in the doorway, don't you?"

I jerked my head towards the door in alarm. "What?"

No one was there.

"Got you," Baljeet laughed as I turned back to him with a scowl. "Oh, you should have seen the look on your face. Priceless!" I glared harder, only succeeding in making him laugh more. But after a moment, he sobered. "What if she had heard you?"

"I'm so glad she didn't," I replied dryly. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Mishti still glaring at me with the soup-dripping spoon in her hand. "You're not still thinking about covering me in soup, are you?" When she narrowed her eyes, I quickly put on my best puppy-dog look, even though I knew at seventeen, it wasn't quite as convincing.

She let out a deep breath, her lower lip blowing up a tuft of her bangs, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, as much as you deserve it, I'm not about to waste a good pot of soup on you. You're not worth it."

"I agree," Baljeet added, nodding his head vigorously up and down. "He's not worth it."

"Thanks, Jeet," I replied sarcastically. "I feel so loved."

"Anytime," he responded with a grin.

"Boys," Mishti muttered under her breath as she turned back to her soup.

"Aww, Mishti, you know we're just teasing." As much as I loved to get a reaction out of her, I always felt a little guilty afterwards. And I especially hated it when she gave me the cold shoulder.

"You know we love you, Mishti," Baljeet added, and I flashed him a grateful smile. Neither of us could stand it when she was mad.

We had both outgrown our childhood crushes on her, but we still adored her. She was like a big sister to us, sometimes even taking on a motherly role. It was something that I particularly noticed about her – she was constantly playing the part of mum for all the little ones at the orphanage. She had never married, which I had always found surprising, but had stayed behind and aided the nuns with all the other children. It wasn't that she couldn't get married – I could think of plenty of potential suitors offhand – but she had never expressed interest in any of them. It seemed that while Baljeet and I had been going through our growth spurts, she had been going through one of her own, but of a different sort. She had emerged more headstrong and determined than ever, and at twenty-three, she was tough as nails while still managing to remain sweet and feminine. And like Baljeet, she had discovered her own purpose in life – saving the seemingly never ending influx of Indian orphans from a life on the streets - or worse.

It made my existence feel more pointless than ever.

"Well, of course you love me!" Mishti exclaimed dramatically, sending a playful grin over her shoulder. "What's not to love?"

I caught on immediately. "Well, I certainly can't think of anything. How about you?"

Baljeet shook his head. "A saint like her couldn't possibly have any faults."

"Beautiful, smart, beautiful," I continued, counting off my fingers.

"You said beautiful twice," Mishti pointed out.

"You're just that beautiful," Baljeet said with a dreamy sigh.

"My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun; coral is far more red than her lips," I recited, desperately trying to remember some of the Shakespeare I had learned during my language classes.

"Are you reciting poetry?" Mishti inquired skeptically.

"Yes, or at least, I'm trying to. I'm not sure how I'm doing with the translation." I gave her a lopsided grin before launching into another verse. "I've never seen a goddess walk; but I know that my mistress walks on the ground."

Baljeet raised an eyebrow. "A goddess? Well, that would explain all those poor saps that follow her around all day, looking like a wet-eared calf wandering after its mother."

Mishti blushed. "They don't follow me _everywhere_."

I smirked. "Just about. But seriously," I said, giving her a curious look, "you've never given any of them a second glance, and some of them aren't even ugly. Why's that?"

Mishti sighed and took a few steps towards our table. I was straddling the chair, this being the only time I'd ever be allowed to do so, and had my chin resting on its back.

"Not that you're, you know, _old _or anything," Baljeet was quick to add. "You're just the only one who stayed behind."

She knew what we meant. As soon as they could, all of the other girls had gotten married and moved away. It was the only way that they'd ever escape, the only hope they had for a better life, even if it usually ended up being just as bad.

But not Mishti.

She stood beside the table, in between the two of us, and I turned around to face her. She smiled fondly, and it suddenly struck me how pretty she really was. Her dark, almond eyes sparkled vibrantly, she had a lovely round face, and her lush, black hair cascaded all the way down her back. But she wasn't just beautiful on the outside. Sure, she had a bit of a temper, but whenever I saw her, she always seemed to be doing something for someone else. Whether it was handing out food to _dalits_ or simply making supper for the kids, she was always doing something.

Unlike me.

She reached over and put a hand on each of our shoulders. "If I got married, I'd be just like every other girl out there. All of them trying so hard to piece together a half-decent dowry and marry the richest man they can get their hands on." She gave us both a meaningful look. "Most of them end up as poor as they were before, only with a dozen extra mouths to feed. I don't want my life to end like that."

"You want to make a difference?" Baljeet offered softly.

I glanced at him, remembering his dream of becoming a doctor. It seemed that everyone knew what they wanted from life, except me.

"Yes," she sighed. "And besides," she added, her face lighting up mischievously, "I could never let any man be the boss of me."

"I pity the fool who'd marry you," I responded with a roll of my eyes.

She whacked me on the back of the head. "Brat," she muttered.

"Hey!" I protested as I rubbed my sore spot.

"Now you two," Mishti announced in her infamous no-nonsense tone of voice, "go make yourselves useful and get me those sacks of flour by the door." She pointed at two at least fifty-pound sacks resting behind the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am!" Baljeet and I barked out simultaneously in English as we sprung to our feet at attention. She nodded in approval as we raised our arms in a brisk salute.

"Hup to it now, men," Mishti ordered in her best British accent. "Supper doesn't cook itself."

"I'd hate for her to be my boss," I mumbled to Baljeet in Hindi as we made our way to the sacks.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, ma'am!" I barked in English.

We'd do that occasionally, switching back and forth between languages. Between the nuns and myself, Mishti and Baljeet had managed to pick up a fair bit of English, although we usually only used it when imitating British soldiers or snobby aristocracy. For the most part, we still spoke in Hindi or Bengali – much to my relief. Because as ridiculous as it was, being right in the middle of Calcutta, I harbored a secret fear that I might start to forget my native tongues. Sometimes, to prevent that from ever happening, I would talk to myself, mumbling little pieces of Hindi and Bengali here and there. With my life in a strictly English homestead, this was the only time I ever had the chance to use them in an intelligent conversation.

And it felt like coming home.

I grabbed the sack of flour and heaved it over my shoulder effortlessly. Beside me, Baljeet gave the bag a tug and attempted to do the same. But for a moment, the bag wobbled, and Baljeet looked as though he was about to lose his balance. I felt like reaching out and giving him a hand, but I forced myself to hold back. I had wounded his pride enough for the day. Thankfully, however, he quickly got the situation under control, steadying the sack on his shoulder. He shot me a glance, and I caught a look of appreciation in his eyes for keeping my big mouth shut. I smiled in response.

"Over here, you two," Mishti called out, pointing to a spot near the stove. "I have to make more bread tonight. We're almost out."

"But you just made some yesterday," Baljeet mentioned, giving her a curious look.

"Do you know how many mouths there are to feed around here?" Mishti demanded.

"A lot," Baljeet admitted reluctantly, "plus the ones that come for handouts."

"Exactly."

I looked away guiltily, thinking of all the extra food and delicious pastries that I had at my convenience every single day.

"You coming, Raj?" Baljeet called back to me as he made his way to the stove.

I jerked myself back to reality, snapping out of my guilt fest. "Uh, yeah."

Up ahead, Baljeet leaned over and dropped the sack with a thud on the ground, causing thousands of pieces of powder to flutter into the air.

"Oh, great," Baljeet choked out, "now my asthma is going to start up again."

I shook my head as I took a step forward, carefully maneuvering past the chairs we had forgotten to push in. The room was really that small. There was an ancient stove that probably dated back to the Napoleonic Wars, which was responsible for cooking every meal in the place. A few counters lined the walls, with a large basin in the corner where Mishti would stick a bucket of water for washing. But besides the miniscule table and chairs at the center of the room, the only other things were boxes and bags of flour and food lining the walls. A back door led to a pump outside – they had finally managed to set one up – and a few half-boarded windows allowed sunlight to stream through onto Mishti's work.

Behind me, I heard what sounded like a child's giggle, and my head wandered in that direction. A little girl was running down the hallway, chasing a shiny, blue marble. It was rolling towards me and came to a halt as it collided with my shoe.

I bent over and picked it up. "Here you go," I said with a smile as I handed it back to her. "Take good care of it, now." I knew how much she probably treasured the thing. At her age, a marble had been as valuable to me as a piece of gold.

The girl looked up at me with wide, chocolate-brown eyes. She peeked up at me shyly from underneath of the long, black strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes. Her hands were behind her back, and one of her bare, little feet was rubbing her other ankle. Her clothes were patched in several places, and there was a little smudge of dirt on her cheek. I would've guessed her to be no more than six.

She seemed quite shy, and so I pushed my hand closer towards her. Timidly, she reached out and snatched the marble before taking a quick peek at my face and running out of sight into the hallway.

I turned back to the stove with a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth and dropped the sack of flour on the ground. "She was sure a shy one."

"Not really," Mishti retorted with a half-shrug as she stirred the pot bubbling on the stove. "I wouldn't call Kashmira particularly shy, would you, Baljeet?"

Baljeet shook his head in response.

I frowned. "Then why was she so scared of me?"

"You look different," Mishti responded bluntly.

"What?" I gawked incredulously. "I'm Indian! I spoke Hindi to her! I was _raised _in this orphanage. How could I look different?"

"Your _skin _is the same," Mishti conceded, "but everything else is European."

I looked down at my flawless cashmere trousers with the silver pocket watch – my worst outfit.

"I can't help it!" I protested. "They make me wear it. I swear, every time I try to get my hands on something actually comfortable, with an hour, the maids have sniffed it out and confiscated it, replacing it with something more suffocating than ever."

Mishti smirked at me. "I'm not criticizing you, _Kabra _(she _still _refused to call me Raj). I'm just telling you the truth." She shrugged. "Most of the little ones are too young to remember you, and they're not used to seeing an Indian like them all dressed up like a white man. It's… _unsettling_."

"But not to us," Baljeet was quick to add. "You'll always be the same obnoxious Raj."

I cracked a small smile. "Thanks." I glanced back at the doorway and caught several faces peeking around the corner at me. Quickly, as soon as they caught my eye, they disappeared, but I could still hear their breathless whispers from the other side.

"Looks like I'm the freak show," I muttered, plopping back down on my chair with my chin in my hand.

"Aww, come on, Raj. It's not like that at all. They love it when you come around; they're always asking when you'll come back," Baljeet reassured me as he seated himself across from me on the other side of the table. "You're the most amazing thing since chocolate pastries."

I snickered and reached for the glass of water at the edge of the table.

"I know what will make you feel better," Mishti declared cheerfully.

"What?" I gargled, the cup of water still raised to my lips.

"This."

Instantly, a bucket of ice-cold water was showered upon me, utterly drenching every inch of my once dry body.

I spit the water still in my mouth back into the cup as frigid water poured into my ears and eyes. Choking and sputtering, I whirled on her furiously.

"What was that for?"

"For calling me an old maid."

"I never said that!"

"You implied it."

Meanwhile, Baljeet, who had been watching the whole scene play out with great amusement, suddenly broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

Mishti and I glanced at each other in alarm. Baljeet was more of the quiet sort, rarely ever emitting a hearty laugh, but when he got started, he couldn't stop. And to top it off, he snorted. Like a pig.

"No, Baljeet, don't," I pleaded desperately.

But it was too late. The snorting had begun.

I buried my face in my hands and tried vainly not to start laughing, too. To save myself, I grabbed my glass of water and began pouring it down my throat, determined to drown out my impending laughter. But just as the water began to go down, he started breaking into a fresh burst of pig snorts, the worst I had ever heard in my entire life.

That was the last straw. I couldn't take it anymore.

Instantly, I burst out laughing, the water in my mouth spewing straight across the table. I grabbed at my side to keep it from splitting open, but suddenly realized that there was still some water stuck in my throat trying to go down the wrong way. I let out a half-gurgling, half-choking sound, and the others glanced at me in alarm.

"Are you o-kay?" Baljeet asked, giving a sudden hiccup on the last syllable of "okay." That was the aftershock. He would always get hiccups.

I shook my head in reply while emitting another frightening series of hacking sounds. Immediately, both were at my side, pounding on my back. I gripped the table hard to keep my balance. This water had _really _gone down the wrong way.

"Come on – cough it up," Mishti encouraged.

But my earth-shattering chokes only got louder, and it wasn't long before I had attracted an audience. Five little faces peered around the doorway, and a few of the especially brave ones even stepped into the kitchen.

"What's wrong with him?" one little boy cried above my noise.

"Is he dying?" the little girl I'd met before, Kashmira, asked.

"No," Mishti responded in an equally loud voice. "He's choking on water. Now come and help him cough it up."

Before I knew it, there were at least half a dozen hands and maybe even a few fists pounding me on the back, and so many voices were cheering me on that I felt as though I were running a marathon.

Finally, after more than my fair share of sputtering and gagging, I could feel my lungs beginning to clear. I let out a few last chortles to completely unclog my throat before collapsing back against my chair.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was unfamiliar to me, but then again, my brain was still half-dazed. Still, I had no idea just how many people had come to my aid. I gave a slight nod and grabbed at my raw throat.

"You gave us quite a scare there," Mishti proclaimed. "You sure you're all right?"

"My throat's a little sore," I admitted.

Baljeet grabbed my half-empty glass of water and thrust it towards me. "Water?" he offered.

I glared.

"Hey," Baljeet countered defensively, "it'll make you feel better."

And as ironic as it was, I knew he was right. Only water could cure my irritated throat.

"Fine," I responded, grabbing the glass from his hand.

I felt rather awkward as I drank the water with all the little children silently staring at me. I put the glass of water down and turned to the kids.

"_Sukriya," _I said in gratitude, speaking directly to them in their own language in the hope that they would see me as one of their own.

But before they could respond, a voice interrupted us. "What's going on in here?" Immediately, an older girl appeared around the corner. She had plain clothing, but sported a few colorful pieces of jewelry and a red bindi on her forehead. Her long hair was tied back, and I would have placed her at only a few years younger than myself.

"He almost died," Kashmira replied, pointing a tiny finger in my direction.

A warm flush began working its way up my neck.

"Nonsense," Mishti objected. "He did not almost die. Now go on, all of you – run along. I have supper to make."

Like ants, the children instantly scattered and disappeared out the door.

"So what really happened, Mishti?" the girl asked as she watched the children vanish into the hallway. "It certainly _sounded _like someone was dying."

Mishti rolled her eyes. "Yes, Kabra, decided to kill himself with water."

I averted my gaze, suddenly finding a stain on the wall exceedingly fascinating.

"Hi, Roshana."

I snapped my head in Baljeet's direction. Glancing at his face, my suspicions were confirmed.

Roshana. So, _this _was the girl he had told me so much about.

He had it bad.

Startled, as though she hadn't really noticed him, Roshana gave him a sideways glance. "Oh, hi, Baljeet." But just as quickly, she turned her attention back to me.

"You're all right?" she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Umm, yeah," I mumbled awkwardly, instantly noticing Baljeet's seething glare.

She pulled her hand back. "Why, you're all wet! What happened to you?"

I rolled my eyes. "A close encounter with a bucket."

She laughed. "You've always had such a great sense of humor, Raja. In fact, that's what I remember most about you. Well, that and the fact that you could never stay out of trouble." Her voice turned nostalgic. "Remember all the good times we had?"

"Uh, yeah!" I replied, forcing myself to sound enthusiastic. Honestly, the only "good time" I could remember was when I had stolen her dolls.

"But it's a shame," she continued, seating herself beside me, "that we never see you anymore."

I shrugged uncomfortably. "I come when I can."

She smiled warmly at me, and I squirmed uneasily. "Well, you should come more often."

Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see Mishti serenely watching the drama unfold and Baljeet shooting daggers at me. This whole situation was _unfortunate_, to say the least, and I knew I had to get out of it as quickly – and carefully – as possible. But really, it wouldn't be _that _hard. I was famous for slipping out of sticky situations. If I had to go with the oldest trick in the book, I would.

"Of course," I beamed, giving her a radiant smile while trying to block Baljeet's face out of my peripheral vision. "It's just with my busy schedule, I don't usually have the tim-" I paused dramatically, pretending to just have remembered something important. "The time! Good gracious, look how it flies!" I reached into my pocket and made a big show of grabbing my pocket watch. I flipped it open and frowned. The face was completely frozen. "Mishti, you ruined my watch. The water got into the gears."

"Whoops."

"But it's fine," I added jovially, and she glanced at me in surprise. "I'm sure Baljeet can fix it. He can fix anything."

He stared at me blankly. "I can?"

"Yes," I responded through gritted teeth, "you can."

"Oh… yeah."

I handed him the watch and gave him a warning look that said, _You had better not mess this up_. He responded with a desperate look of his own, a frantic plea for help. I was the one who knew how to fix things, not him. When it came to the human body, he knew more than anybody, but when it came to understanding the inner workings of mechanical contraptions, my time on the street had taught me more than my fair share of knowledge, whether it was for breaking things apart or putting them back together.

"I didn't know Baljeet could fix things," Roshana remarked with a puzzled expression plastered across her face."

"You and me both," I heard Mishti mumble.

"Oh, yes" I continued smoothly, ignoring Mishti's remark, "It's amazing what he can do. He just removes the pallet lever, delivers a few puffs of air to the wheel, tightens it, and rewinds the clock. Quite simple, really." I had spoken the words as slowly as possible, without seeming obvious.

"Sounds like you know how to do it, too," she pointed out.

"In theory," I responded, "but only Baljeet's nimble fingers can work their magic-" A thud caused me to glance up and catch Baljeet awkwardly picking up the trinket from the floor. "-on it."

She stared at me skeptically.

"ROSHANA!"

She glanced up. "Looks like I'm needed." She put a hand on my shoulder. "Nice seeing you, Raj. I'm hoping you'll be back soon." She bent over and placed a small kiss on my cheek. "See you later, Mishti," she called out as she made her way to the hallway. "Oh, you too, Baljeet."

He smiled shyly at her, even though she had barely acknowledged his presence. I forced out a weak one of my own. As soon as she was around the corner, however, Baljeet tossed the watch back at me.

"Thanks," he muttered.

I sighed exasperatedly. "I'm _sorry, _Baljeet. I _tried_, okay?"

He crossed his arms and harrumphed, refusing to look at me.

"It's not my fault!"

He turned his head, finally looking me in the eye. "I know it isn't. It isn't your fault for being _so_ much better than me."

I gaped. "So I live with a rich guy and have nice clothes. Big whoop! That's nothing."

He glared at me. "It's not the clothes, and you know it."

I opened my mouth, but quickly closed it, knowing exactly what he meant by the stinging remark. Everywhere I went, girls were always giving me second glances. "Devilishly handsome" someone had once called me. Somehow I had managed to mature quite nicely, with my softer baby features contorting into something chiseled and masculine. Strong, tall, and with a head full of thick, curly, black hair, I had seen more than a few portly, balding British men eye me with envy. But I knew they'd never really want to look like me. My skin – my greatest blemish – was the wrong color.

In all truth, however, I knew it was my eyes that had always distinguished me from the rest of poverty-stricken India. My eyes were fairer than the normal chocolate-brown of my people, but were still unlike any of the colors I had seen in Europeans. Not hazel, but not quite brown, they were almost a strange mixture of brown and yellow, creating an almost… amber color. A hypnotizing amber.

Handsome, charming, and rich – what penniless girl _wouldn't _try to catch my eye?

Normally, I loved the fact that I could make girls fall head over heels with one look, but when situations like this popped up, it wasn't quite so pleasant. What bothered me so much, however, was that whenever I was with Baljeet, he always seemed to blend into the background, and I knew he didn't deserve that. A brilliant scientist, loyal friend, and not at all bad looking – he was going places, although people didn't seem to recognize it, especially when I was around.

And I had no idea what to do about it.

Truth was, I didn't live for the spotlight. Even though I would never admit it, my childhood escapades had simply been the result of years of isolation. I'd had Vidhya until I was five and friends on the street who had watched my back, but for the most part, I had been taking care of myself. Vidhya hadn't been the most affectionate of sorts, and as he was always out trying to scavenge for food, he had simply never had the time to dote on me. Until I was eight, I had been forced to grow up _trying _to blend into the background. That was how I had survived. So when I had come to the orphanage, I had relished the nuns' attention and had constantly been seeking more.

But I suppose there were always two sides to me. One part of me basked in the attention and adored taking command, having every eye, all undivided attention, on myself. The other side, however, just… existed. I could be the one that every eye watched with excitement one minute, and then turn around and be the one silently observing from the background in the next. I enjoyed my solitude, silently observing the world around me, but these days, it was getting harder and harder to come by. People couldn't help noticing me.

Mishti, who had been conspicuously silent throughout the whole ordeal, finally decided to speak up. "Baljeet, if Roshana is so superficial that she would only judge by outward appearances, then she isn't worth your time."

"Exactly!" I added with enthusiasm. "Look at you – you're funny, handsome, brilliant, and a great friend. Some girl is bound to notice you."

He gave me a skeptical look. "Handsome?"

"Absolutely!" I affirmed. "And you have dreams, too."

"Yeah, ones that are never going to come true," he grumbled.

"Nonsense," I chastised. "You spend your free time learning English and studying science. You help Mishti hand out food to the poor. The two of you make meals, she spends hours taking care of little terrors, and I… take violin lessons."

He glanced up at me in surprise. "You do? I've never heard you play."

"There's a reason."

He cracked a smile, and I knew that he wasn't going to stay mad at me. But just to make sure, I decided to use my secret weapon. "And Baljeet, look at what I brought you." I reached under the table and found my hand instantly covered in slobber. "Echkk!" I blurted out, pulling it back in alarm. I bent over and peered under the table, instantly finding myself face to face with the scrappiest dog in existence. With brown, matted fur and half of his ear missing, I knew he would never win any "Best in Show" prizes. The children had discovered him more dead than alive, and I knew that Mishti hadn't had the heart to turn him away. Somehow, he had managed to sleep through all the commotion – right on top of my satchel.

"Move it, you big lug," I demanded.

He continued to stare at me, his black tongue dangling outside of his mouth, dripping like a faucet.

"Fine," I grunted. "We'll do it your way." I grabbed the handle of the satchel and pulled until the dog finally moved his rear end.

I rolled my eyes. "Here, Jeet. Two brand-new, state-of-the-art, British-style, scientific textbooks."

His eyes lit up, and he jerked his head towards me. "What kind?"

I glanced at the titles. "_The Complete History of Ancient Alchemy_ and _Human Anatomy_."

"I know who won't be helping me with supper tonight!" Mishti remarked in a sing-song voice.

"Thanks, Raj!" he exclaimed, eagerly grabbing the books from my hand and ignoring Mishti.

I grinned, knowing I was back in his good graces once again.

He glanced back up at me hopefully. "Next time you come, you think you could help me with the words I don't know?"

I snorted. "I'm the one who needs help. You get this stuff way more than I do. And besides, if the nuns don't know the word, I doubt I would, either." I grabbed one of the books and flipped to a random page. "I mean, come on, who in their right mind knows what 'bezoar' means?"

"It's when some chemical compounds, such as sulfur auretum and either red mercuric oxide or black antimony, clump together inseparably as soon as they are mixed together," he responded.

I stared. "Well, I guess _you_ do. _Anyway_," I said, stretching lazily, "I probably should be getting back. Madame Beauford blows a gasket every time I'm late for French lessons… or etiquette lessons, or _any _lessons, really." I cringed at the bad memories.

"Just tell her you were in a life-or-death situation," Mishti offered.

"Naw, they stop believing you after a while."

"How late are you?" Baljeet asked.

"I wouldn't know." I sent a glare in Mishti's direction. "My watch is broken."

She coughed. "Sorry."

"Aww, it's okay," I replied with a shrug. "I can fix it." I stared at the clock's frozen face. "At least, I _think _I can." I smiled up at them. "I'll see you guys later, okay?"

"You can take the back door," Mishti offered.

"Thanks," I replied gratefully. That way, I'd be able to avoid any more undesirable "incidents." I stepped towards the kitchen's back door and opened it, revealing a beautiful, sun-kissed day outside.

"Come back soon, you hear?"

"I will."

"Thanks again, Raj," Baljeet called out as I stepped out onto the lush, green grass.

"No problem, Jeet," I responded with a wave as I disappeared around the corner. Besides the pitiful attempt at landscaping the nun's had created around the orphanage's entrance, I was forced to walk down the old cobblestone road, past alleyways and run-down shacks to get back home. Aunt Eloise hated me walking these streets alone, but I had absolutely refused to let a bodyguard come with me. I had grown up here, even lived on the streets for three years – I knew how to take care of myself. But I had only managed to convince her that I was "safe" when I had agreed to bring a small dagger along for protection. Not that I'd ever need it.

I stepped across wobbly stones, carefully avoiding piles of sludge scattered around – and on – the road. Flea-ridden dogs cut across my path, one aggressively nipping at the other's heels. Some women had set up a laundry line and were trying to hang up their clothes while keeping an eye on their rambunctious children. Half-crumbling shacks were lined closely together, and every once in a while a little head would peek out a bare window. Old men lined some of the walls, sticking their hands out for rupees as I walked by.

I slipped a small coin into each of their outstretched palms.

They reminded me of Vidhya, doing the exact same thing every day for years in return for mere crumbs, ones he had been willing to split in half with me. I couldn't simply walk past these men, not with a clear conscience.

Several children were playing in the street ahead of me, but as soon as they saw me, they all bolted, except for one wild-looking boy with a long, black scar across his shoulder.

He stood his ground, staring me straight in the eye. "You bring food today, Raj?" he called out in Bengali.

"_Hê_," I replied, reaching for my satchel. I pulled out some leftover pastries and bread that I had managed to snatch from the Davidsons' kitchen and gently unwrapped their lacy-white covering.

Whoops. Maybe putting them with the textbooks hadn't been the best idea.

The boy marched up to me and glanced at the food in my hand. "Looks good."

"They're kind of squished," I noted apologetically.

"Doesn't matter." He turned to face where the other children had vanished. Several of them had already reemerged and were timidly heading towards me. "Come everyone! Raja brought food!"

Instantly, like a pack of hungry wolves, the children surrounded me. Overwhelmed, I simply tried to keep up with the demand, breaking up the bread as quickly as my hands were able.

The boy turned to face me. "Where's Kajal?"

I shrugged in response just as a boy ripped a piece of bread out of my hand.

"Kajal, come here!" the boy called out. "Come get bread!"

Most of the children had gotten some by now, but I knew that I didn't have much left. No matter how much I brought, I always seemed to run out.

A little girl stepped forward, timidly grasping the boy's hand. I bent over, meeting her at eye-level and held a small pastry in front of her. "Here you go, Kajal," I said with a smile. "Enjoy."

She reached out and swiftly snatched the treat from my hand before giving me a toothy grin. I smiled back at her.

A sudden tug at my arm, however, sent me staring straight into the pleading eyes of a boy with his little sister on his arm.

"Please, mister, do you have any more?"

I glanced down to find my kerchief now completely empty of anything but crumbs, and even those had almost completely disappeared.

"I'm sorry," I replied guiltily, "but they're all gone." I stood up and tousled the boy's hair. "I'll bring some more next time, okay?"

He nodded sadly and turned away, releasing a fresh pang of guilt in my chest. I hated this. I always had so much for myself, but never enough for them. I lived in a palace, but somehow I could never manage to give them more than crumbs. What I hated most, however, was what it revealed about my own life: I was spoiled rotten.

I pulled my satchel over my shoulder and took a step forward, prepared to resume my journey, finished with my good deed for the day.

"Thanks for the food, Raj!"

I turned my head to find at least a dozen children waving at me and smiling, a few still munching contentedly, although the majority of them had stuffed their faces as soon as they had gotten the chance.

I smiled in return and gave them a wave of my own before pressing onward again. I was largely undisturbed for the rest of the journey, especially so once I had left the Hindu quarter of the city, leaving me and my thoughts to themselves.

These visits always made me question myself, my motives, my purpose in life. The others had all found their place – why couldn't I? I had the best of everything, people were always telling me I was "something special," but I had nothing to show for it all. I was just me – plain, old Raj.

It took me about half of an hour to cross the many sub-sections and divisions of Calcutta before finally reaching the aristocratic side of the city. The difference was astounding. Manicured lawns, bubbling fountains, and exotic and luscious fauna made the place where I had been raised look like a dump in comparison. And, well, it _was_.

I made my way to the gates of the Davidsons' compounds and prepared for my usual means of entrance – jumping it. I puckered my mouth and flattened the palms of my hands, slicking them both with saliva. Despite being unsanitary, it was the oldest climbing trick in the book, one I had learned during my days on the street. I reached up to grab the first bar when -

"You – over there – what do you think you're doing?"

My hands fell limp at my side.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" the voice repeated.

I turned around to find myself staring directly into the face of a young , sour-faced British man. He sported an expensive three-piece suit, a head of thinning, red hair, and a scowl as deep as the Mariana Trench.

I gave a sheepish grin. "I live here. I was trying to get in."

His scowl deepened, if that was even possible. "And so you decided to climb over the gate?"

"It's faster?" I offered weakly.

He gave a loud harrumph. "And I suppose your master is pleased with your shenanigans?"

My mouth dropped open, and I struggled to find the words to reply. "The general isn't my-"

"Are you the courier?" he interrupted.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. My dark skin automatically made me a servant, my well-off clothing too good for a mere peasant, and my satchel made me look like an errand boy. This wasn't right, and his assumptions were insulting. I had to set the record straight.

"Listen, sir, I'm not one of the-"

"Because I have a message for your master," he continued on, completely ignoring my attempts at correcting him.

"For the last time," I exclaimed exasperatedly, "I'm not-"

"How rude!" the man sniffed. "Where are your manners? Interrupting your superiors." He gave a weary sigh. "But I suppose I can't expect much better from your kind."

I narrowed my eyes, all but shooting daggers at the man, and ground my teeth together. Then, forcing out an overly-cheerful smile, I asked through gritted teeth, "What was your message?"

He glared down at me from underneath his stick-thin eyebrows. "This letter is to go straight to General George Davidson by order of Lord Julian Cahill. Why else would I have waltzed all the way up here?"

Cahill. I had only been half listening to his rant, the other half of me thinking less than pleasant thoughts towards him, but that name had caught my complete and undivided attention. It was a name that had been lingering in the back of my mind for five years now, one I had never been able to forget but had been forbidden to remember.

I waited for the man to finish his rant about travelling all the way up here to_ personally_ deliver this message before politely making my offer. "I can give Master Davidson the letter for you. No need to waste more of your precious time waiting for an audience." I finished off with an angelic smile.

He stared at me skeptically for a moment before finally caving in. "Well, I suppose… I have a million things to do back at the office, and I can't expect any of those half-wits to get anything done on their own." He sighed mournfully before turning back to me. "But it is _imperative _that it gets to your master. Immediately." He gave me a hard stare.

"Yes, sir," I replied, eagerly taking the envelope from his grasp.

He gave me another look, as though second guessing his decision. "Maybe I should just make sure that-"

"Sir," I interrupted, "please don't take me as being rude, but if I may, this is my _job_. If I wasn't an honest worker, the general would never have hired me. And I would never risk losing my livelihood over a silly little letter." I gave him a reassuring nod. "I can take care of things, sir. Just go back to your men and show them how to get their jobs done."

"I suppose," he conceded. "But you had better make sure it gets to him, or I _will _have a word with your employer about this – and your unseemly behavior."

I gave another reassuring nod as he turned on his spit-and-polished shoes, mumbling something about the help in these parts. As soon as his back was to me, I made a gagging face, but quickly covered it as he glanced back at me over his shoulder. I flashed him an innocent smile and pretended to rearrange my satchel as I waited until he had disappeared from view.

This was it.

I clutched the letter, inspecting the envelope. There were no markings other than the general's name and address, except for the faint outline of a greasy fingerprint. I glanced from side to side as I snatched my dagger, which was concealed within my clothing. Carefully, I slid it under the fold, slipping open the covering without making a mark. A drop of hot wax, and it would be as good as new. Another useful skill I had managed to pick up.

I gently pried open the delicate fold, careful not to damage it, and slipped the letter out. It was fresh paper, crisp and unwrinkled, crinkling lightly under my touch. I turned it over and stared. There, on the fold, was a marking of sorts. It was somewhat like a seal, one that appeared to be of great significance. Mesmerized, I studied it. Two snakes twisted together around a sword, their tongues both flicking out dauntingly. It made me think of my own name, Nagaraga, king of serpents. A rather striking similarity, as odd as it was.

Taking a deep breath, I unfolded it, anxiously awaiting whatever it was I was about to find.

I could have done the right thing and given the letter to the general, but as I'm sure you've realized by now, that was never my style. I had to do things my way. I had to find out the truth for myself. And if that letter had anything to do with the Cahills, which I was certain it did, then I had to know what it was.

What should I have done? Speaking as one who has already read the letter, I will say this: I should have destroyed it. If I had been wise, I would have crumpled it, torn it apart, and scattered it to the wind. They say a letter itself is not so dangerous as the message it carries. I suppose it's true. As for me, it was about to deliver one I had been secretly dreading, one that was about to unleash my greatest fears.

It was the beginning of my end.


	5. Chapter 4

_Dearest cousin,_

I am tired of waiting. It has been five years now since I sent Killian to you, and still, there have been no results. He came back to me with many more of your empty promises, ones I should have known you were incapable of keeping.

I've always trusted you, George, but I'm beginning to wonder if that trust was misplaced. You have served our branch well over the years, been an honourable servant of Her Majesty, but face it, George, senility evades no one.

Our time is near. The dawn of the Lucian age is upon us, and we cannot afford any weak links in the chain.

Or traitors.

The Durbar incident left me wondering whose side you're really on, George. Despite what I told Killian, I know you're not senile – yet. But it would not be difficult to convince the world otherwise.

I have plans, George. Extraordinary plans, ones you are incapable of imagining. They will bring incomprehensible power to our glorious Lucian branch. But all thorns must be weeded out first.

I am not accusing you of anything; this is simply a warning. We _are_ family after all, and I believe that you deserve the opportunity to redeem yourself and prove your loyalty to our family as before. Do yourself a favour, George – keep your promises. I understand that any Janus influence in the area has been exterminated. Well done. Maintain Lucian power in the Raj - over politics, military, and trade - and you will die a very rich man. But all of the others – eliminate them. The ones I have named and we spoke of, which I refuse to list on paper lest someone manages to intercept this letter, must be dealt with. And this time, no excuses.

But one more thing – your supposed "replacement." I am intrigued. Not your son, a native lad, no less, and you propose that he take your place? I have always valued your judgment, but this seems an odd request. There is not even a drop of Lucian blood in his veins. But I am not insulted by your petition, for Killian has told me much concerning this boy. Although I suppose that by now, he is more man than boy.

I have heard startling things about him, and even if he is not Lucian, I believe it is within every right of ours to utilize his full potential. Our cause needs more bright young minds. And so, I am willing to make you an offer, one you _cannot_ refuse. Send him to England. He will receive the best training, education, and opportunities that you would be a fool to withhold from him. In return, you will remain as you always have, with the promise of someone to carry on your work once you are gone.

It is simple, George. Prove you are loyal to me. Send your replacement or be replaced.

_Xx Julian xX_

_xXxXx_

So these were the Cahills, and this was their game. It certainly didn't take a genius to figure it out.

I was a pawn.

That much was obvious. Only halfway through the letter I could see it coming.

It was a shrewd move on Julian's part, I had to admit, a sure-fire way of making the general cave in to his demands. If he wanted to keep his position, he would send me to England. And I of all people especially recognized his need to keep it. It wasn't simply his means of status; it was his one way of maintaining peace in the Raj. As long as he remained in such a high position, he would continue to do as much as possible to ease the tensions between the many racial groups of the country and tend to the needs of not only the rich, but the commoners so like myself. If he was removed from power, however, the likelihood of another general being appointed who was as concerned about the people as he was was slim. In short, it was mandatory that he retained his position.

The only problem?

It required that I become a hostage.

And once I was in England, Julian would have the general fastened securely under his thumb. One false move on George's part, and I would pay the price. So I would become a prisoner and the general would be a puppet, but the people would remain relatively secure. This was Julian's compromise.

And it made me sick.

When the general had explained about the different "branches" of his family years before, I had automatically assumed that this "Lucian" group he belonged to were the good guys. After all, he couldn't possibly be a part of something evil and cruel. He was one of the greatest men I knew, one of my biggest heroes. Surely his family could only be as kind and caring as he was.

… Or maybe not.

I could still remember the general and Killian discussing Julian all those years ago, but I had simply written him off as one rotten apple in the bunch. Now that I truly thought about it, however, I remembered what Killian had said about bribery, trickery, and lies back in London. And apparently, it never ended.

Was that what this family was really about? Was that the kind of world that awaited me in London?

I wasn't sure, but one thing I was certain of: I had to find out.

The letter still in my hand, I began to stuff it back into the envelope as quickly as possible while making sure no one had caught sight of me. I was strongly tempted, however, to just toss it in the bushes along with my lunch. My stomach had been feeling rather queasy ever since I realized I had become live bait, and as for the letter, or ransom rather, I simply wanted to do away with the blasted thing.

But I knew I couldn't do it. Not with a clear conscience, anyway.

If I _did _decide to carelessly toss the thing aside, I would be putting the general in jeopardy. And now that I knew everything he had was at stake, it would have been simply foolhardy of me to discard it. I would have been living in constant fear that a squadron of armed guards would simply show up one day, tear down the almost-impenetrable door, and throw the poor man out onto the street. Or worse.

I simply couldn't deal with that. I cared too much about him. Not to mention the fact that I owed him more than I could ever repay, a fact that annoying little voice in my head would never let me forget.

So as much as I wanted to pretend that I'd never read it, as much as I wanted to toss it in the bushes and never lay eyes on it again, it wasn't going to happen. I was going to have to go with "Plan B."

Whatever that was.

It was a conundrum. I couldn't dispose of the letter, but I couldn't show it to the general yet either. Before I did that, I would need to figure out a strategy. There was no way on earth I was simply going to waltz up to him, hand over the envelope, and announce, "Well, I'll be off to England now."

Because I refused to go down without a fight.

I'd always suspected that the general would try to send me to England at some point or another in order to receive a "better education," just as so many other high-ranking officials did with their sons, but I had never expected the matter to come up so soon. Or like this.

I turned, tucking the letter in my satchel as I did, and approached the ever-looming entrance gate before me. Slicking my hands for the second time, I swung my arms back and forth in order to propel myself upward. On the first try, my hands caught one of the silver crosspieces, and I pulled the rest of my body up, maneuvering my way swiftly up and across the rest of the bars like a monkey swinging through the treetops until I was balancing precariously at the top. Carefully, I began to rise as I spread my arms out for balance, no doubt resembling one of those trapeze artists I had once witnessed at a travelling circus. And for a moment, I remained that way, the full weight of my body balancing upon two inches of solid iron, as I surveyed the city.

The general's mansion was located on a hill above the rest of the municipality, and so from where I was, I could see a good portion of the city down below me, along with the frivolous estates beneath ours and innumerable emerald-green treetops of the encroaching jungles. "Awe-inspiring" might have been an appropriate word to describe the sight, what with its snow-white Hindu temples, exotic tropical forests, British military camps, and subtle pink clouds all decorating the horizon.

I enjoyed moments like this. I had always possessed a bit of a daredevil streak, but what I really loved about these experiences was the feeling of power it gave me, if only for a moment. There was just something about the feel of the soft breeze against my skin, rustling through my hair, and being able to look down on the world and see it appear so small, so helpless. For those few seconds, I felt truly free. I was on top of the world, and not one of those tiny figures below could control me.

If only that were true.

Reluctantly, I forced my gaze away from the bustling streets below and onto the ground beneath me, taking the fifteen foot leap without a second thought and landing softly on the hard-packed earth with the grace of an acrobat. It was a skill I had learned on the streets and had kept up simply to scare the nuns with my horrific stunts. This kind of thing was completely normal for me, although I'd never been willing to tell Aunt Eloise that.

I bit my lip, deep in thought, as I mentally formulated my next move. I needed answers - that much was obvious - but at this point, I was unwilling to obtain them from the general. The information had to be from someone who wouldn't hold back, who would tell me absolutely everything I wanted to know. I needed to find out the truth for myself, not only what others wanted me to believe.

But who would be willing to give me the answers?

Aunt Eloise was honest, although I couldn't be sure of how much she knew. The general had said she "abhors anything even relating to the Cahills," and if I started asking questions, she would wonder why, which would mean I would have to show her the letter and…

No, I couldn't ask her. But what about some of the servants or hired help?

Again, there was a slim chance that they knew any more than I did, and if they did, most would be unwilling to talk out of loyalty to their master. Which meant that, in essence, there was no one. Absolutely no one I could trust who knew anything even slightly worthwhile about this family and would still give me a straightforward answer.

Well, that said a lot about the Cahills.

It hadn't taken much for me as a child to learn that humans are unreliable creatures, so that wasn't much of a surprise. But it didmake it that much more obvious to me that my source of information would have to be something that _wasn't _human. And what was the best place to find reliable information?

A library.

Whether or not there was anything actually there, I didn't know, but I figured it was the best place to start. The general had the largest collection of books I had ever seen – half of them moldy or rotten – and his library was certainly chock full of them. I had never noticed anything before, but considering the sheer size of the place and the fact that I'd never been searching for anything remotely relating to this in the past, that didn't mean much.

I began heading towards the house along the marvelously impressive granite walkway, past manicured lawns of a lovely shade of green and bubbling fountains that appeared as though they belonged in a Roman's villa, before finally coming to front steps that were almost overgrown with European-bred roses and hydrangeas. I stepped up them, almost getting entangled in a thicket of thorns while thinking to myself that Aunt Eloise must have forbidden the gardeners to prune her precious imported flowers yet again. It was a vicious cycle she went through. She would forbid the flowers to be cut, they would grow until the front steps were overrun and someone would complain, thus finally forcing her to have them clipped. Then, because she felt so guilty about having them trimmed, she would order them not to be pruned until they would start to choke the rest of the garden – and walkway – out all over again. I smiled to myself over her predictable and highly entertaining habits as I approached the gigantuous white-washed Victorian doors of my house. Or palace, rather.

I reached out to grab one of the brass knockers, but to my surprise, the door began to crack open by what appeared to be its own doing. I stepped to the side and peered in to find the butler, a man called Smythe, holding it open for me, clad in his spotless black uniform as usual with immaculate grey hair slicked back against his head.

I gave him a smile as I stepped past him into the grand foyer. "Thanks, Smythe."

"Of course, Master Kabra," he replied politely – always politely. The only one to call me "Master Kabra," I found his over-the-top courtesy amusing, but I enjoyed him nonetheless. He was, after all, always the first to cover for me when Aunt Eloise got on my case about one thing or another.

"Did you have a pleasant visit with your young friends?"

I flashed him a wry smile. "Oh, yes. They tried to drown me."

He nodded as if this was no surprise, his face remaining as solemn as ever. "So I take it that you quite thoroughly enjoyed yourself?"

"Absolutely."

At this, the very corners of his mouth lifted ever-so-slightly. "Your aunt has requested that I inform you dinner shall be ready within the hour."

My eyes widened in surprise. "I was gone that long?"

"Time flies when you are having fun, young master. It was all I could say to keep Madame Beauford from breaking out into conniptions."

"She's still waiting for me?"

"Oh, no. Quite the contrary. She finally became so sick of waiting that she retired to her quarters, claiming she was coming down with the fever. I'm absolutely positive you'll be receiving double the work on the morrow."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, joy. Double the French verb conjugation. I can't wait." With a sigh, I readjusted the satchel on my shoulder. "In any case, thanks, Smythe. I'm not sure how I could possibly survive the horror without you around to cover for me."

"My pleasure, sir," he responded dutifully before turning his attention towards the cream-coloured bag on my shoulder. "May I take your satchel for you?"

I glanced down at it. "Oh, no. It's fine. I'll just take it with me."

He raised an eyebrow. "I spotted Master Middleton, the postmaster, out yonder a few moments ago. It is a rare occasion when he deigns himself to leave his office and deliver letters personally."

I could feel my face growing warm. "Uh, yes, it's true. He had a letter for the general that he wanted me to deliver for him." At least that much was true.

Smythe nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, then, I shan't keep you any longer. Dinner must be prepared."

I emitted a weak smile as I turned to go, anxious to get away from the butler's all-knowing eyes, but he reached out, catching my arm and preventing me from taking any further steps. "Master Kabra," he added, his voice low, "may I leave you with this warning: Beware the Cahills."

My mind suddenly froze, along with the rest of my body. This wasn't right. It _couldn't _be. The _butler _knew about all of this, and I didn't? What exactly was going on inside of my own house, and how could I not have known about it all these years? It was starting to make me feel like Oliver Twist, unwittingly thrust into a world he had no knowledge of to begin with.

Smythe's face was no graver than usual, and to the untrained eye, it wouldn't be at all surprising if he had just announced dinner, not a threat. But I could read the man. His dark blue eyes spoke volumes, even if no more words were audibly uttered. And for some reason, what I saw there, past his weary old face and outwardly calm demeanor, scared me. I couldn't explain what it was, but for some reason his suspense-novel warning was petrifying. Whatever he knew, it obviously wasn't pleasant.

He let go of my arm and turned abruptly on his polished black shoes, clearly attempting to leave me to ponder his words alone, without the threat of someone catching sight of us. But I couldn't let him get away this easily. If he knew, then I needed answers. After all, how could I not trust Smythe?

"Wait!" I called out, my hand reaching out and grabbing him by the arm. It was a desperate grasp, most likely a bit painful for the older man, but he never let on. Pausing, his wise old eyes, ones that had probably witnessed every event in this house since time immemorial, flickered back towards my face.

I opened my mouth, groping for just the right words, but they wouldn't come. What was I supposed to ask him? What were the most important questions? He wasn't going to spend his entire day sitting around and discussing my oh-so-many problems, which meant I could only ask him the most important things. But what exactly were they?

"Smythe, I need to know. Who – what… I just don't-"

"Watch for the snakes," he responded, cutting me off. "That is all I can tell you."

"The snakes?" I echoed weakly. How on earth were _snakes_ going to help me?

The man nodded. "It is neither my duty nor my place to explain these matters to you." He glanced back at me, his face conveying a look, one that caught me by surprise. Was that _pity _I saw clearly reflected in his eyes? It couldn't be. Had I been thrust into such a situation that _he _would pity _me_? Because he knew how much I hated other people's sympathy.

A small sigh escaped his lips before he finally continued on. "But I feel as though I owe you at least this small warning. There are many ruthless and savage animals that have tread in this very house, but perhaps the most dangerous of all these is the snake. This is one that you must remain most wary of."

A picture of the seal with the intertwined serpents came to mind. "But the general – is he one of them?"

The man bit his lip, his grey brows furrowing slightly. "He is, but not the one you must watch for. Of all the serpents, he is the least harmful. A virtually venomless snake, if you will."

Upon his words, something akin to relief flooded through me. Ever since reading the letter, doubts had begun creeping into my mind. I had always trusted the general, but just like Julian, I was beginning to wonder if that trust had been misplaced. After all, what did I really know about him or his work?

The butler seemed to sense my conflicting emotions and immediately hastened to correct himself. "Do not fret, Master Kabra. The general is a most honourable man - by any standards."

I nodded my head slowly, thoughtfully, as I allowed the information to sink in. Obviously this entire thing was much bigger than I had previously imagined. Even more shocking than that, however, was the fact that the butler, merely household staff, knew more about the entire situation than even I, someone who was practically a part of the family. For all I knew, the entire myriad of servants and staff could be in cahoots with the general behind my back. I was clearly in the dark about almost everything, and it was high time for that to change.

Putting on my most confident smile, as though not everything about my world had just been turned upside down, I met the elderly man's gaze straight on. "Thank you, Smythe. I appreciate it. Probably more than you'll ever know."

The man produced a small smile. "I only wish I could do more, Master Kabra." And after giving me a small nod, he turned on his heel, disappearing through one of the never-ending corridors, no doubt on his way to the kitchen to assist with the colossal nightly ritual of our palace, otherwise known as "dinner."

I remained as still as a statue, simply watching the man, one I clearly did not know as well as I had thought, as he disappeared around the corner and his footsteps faded into oblivion.

And now I was back to square one: trying to decipher the truth. And in a period of no more than fifteen minutes, it had become quite evident that it was not going to be an easy task. But fortunately, all thanks to Smythe, I now had something – no matter how miniscule – to go on. And it all revolved around snakes.

Reaching into my satchel, my fingers took hold of the translucent envelope and pulled it to the surface. Carefully slipping the letter out, I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the regal seal as I did. The serpents, curled strategically around a sword, were anything but forthcoming. Their eyes, even though it was merely a portrait, were dark and foreboding, and venom all but dripped from their gleaming fangs. It conjured up a picture in my mind, one of years before when a similar looking serpent had been coiled in a position exceedingly similar to this, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Strangely enough, however, as I now realized, he had simply been attacking one of his own. And from what I could tell, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence either.

I frowned, realizing the picture reminded me of more than simply my king cobra adversary. I had seen this picture before. I knew I had. And not only that, but something inside me said I had seen this portrait on more than occasion. Something common, something ordinary, something –

Oh, how blatantly obvious!

I quickly placed the letter back in the envelope and tucked it into my satchel, clucking my tongue in annoyance over my own folly, and began to trek across the vast foyer floor, only taking a few short steps before noticing the fresh track of mud behind me that now decorated Aunt Eloise's once pristine peach-coloured marble floor. The thick brown goop was a clear indicator of my every move, or more precisely, my every step. A rather brilliant move on my part.

Fervently hoping that a maid was nearby, I hurried to the corner of the foyer where a finely-carved coat rack stood, displaying a vast array of jackets and various other outer garments. Beside it also lay a perfectly-lined row of fine leather shoes and boots, all shined and polished, ready to be used as needed. And strangely enough, they reminded me of the many British soldiers I had seen in my lifetime, standing straight and tall in their ranks, all waiting patiently at attention. An odd metaphor, perhaps, but a suitable one, nonetheless.

Swiftly, I began to pry off my dirt-caked shoes, ones I just knew would be tossed away as soon as a maid laid eyes on them, and placed them carefully in the farthest corner away from visible sight. Pulling out a fresh pair, I forced my feet into them as quickly as possible, jamming my heel in as I did, before resuming my original path towards the main parlour.

The foyer was an extremely airy space, one of the only places in the entire house that was not covered in wall-to-wall decorations, and to most, it would appear rather empty. I, on the other hand, enjoyed it. It might appear vacant, but that only made it feel that much grander. And without the proper direction, it would be all too easy to become completely and utterly lost in the place.

To my front lay a grand staircase leading up to the second floor, one upon which I had enjoyed countless hours sliding down the railing. To my left was the magnificent ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers, grand windows and curtains, and exquisite dancing floor, and on my right presided the room where I was certain I had encountered those menacing creatures before. In only a minute, I would discover in absolute certainty whether or not my intuition was correct.

I stepped into the room, instantly being greeted by numerous knick-knacks from across the globe. This was the place where all the Davidsons' guests were courteously invited upon arrival, a room filled to the brim and bursting with the various treasures they loved to display to all their high-and-mighty friends. The general especially enjoyed giving long, detailed, and overly-dramatic stories about each and every one of the strange objects that presided there. I had to admit, though, it was a conversation starter.

From one side of the room, an elephant's ivory tusks hung as a trophy while a Greek statue and painting of the French Riviera resided on the other. The general and his wife were fascinated with the unknown, just like so many other Victorians I had encountered were, as their traditional Incan headdress above the fireplace's mantle clearly indicated. In a way, I had always figured that it was that same desire to encounter the unfamiliar that made many of the general's friends so particularly intrigued with me. On one hand, some acted as though I wasn't quite human and tended to ignore me, but on the other, I was viewed as some particularly fascinating species of wild animal that was the subject of an ongoing science experiment. And the point of that experiment? To civilize me.

Thankfully, the Davidsons' didn't view me in that ugly sort of light. To them, I was a real human, not simply another trophy to be hung on one of their walls. They were your typical aristocratic Victorian family, but they were certainly much more open-minded than most. And sometimes, that was the only thing that kept me sane.

To the center of the room was the brick fireplace with the Incan headdress, but that wasn't the focus of my attention. Streams of light from the setting sun were leaking in through cracks in the heavy green curtains, illuminating a specific spot exactly in the middle of the mantle. And that glowing beam of sunlight confirmed my suspicions.

An eerie red radiance stared back at me, along with those treacherous eyes that appeared to follow my every move. I had been right. Almost every day of my life I saw these two serpents, but they had become such an everyday occurrence that I had merely pushed them to the back of my mind along with all the other decor. But I did remember this particular piece a bit more clearly than the others, for it had left a distinct mark upon my impressionable mind when I had initially arrived. My first glimpse of it at the tender age of ten had quite startled me, especially after I had just saved the general from one of those exact creatures. And despite my name, I had never had any great fondness for serpents.

I slowly approached the figures, treading across the soft carpet soundlessly, as I reached out and touched the delicate markings, carefully tracing the snakes' outlines with my index finger. I now knew that this mantle wasn't the only place I had seen them before. Shields on suits of armour, officials' buttons and medallions, household decorations – I could think of at least a dozen places where I had seen this coat of arms before. And something inside me said that this certainly wasn't going to be the last time I would encounter it either. Now that I knew about the serpents, it wasn't going to be an easy task to try and forget about them.

Pulling back my hand abruptly, I turned on my heel and began to stride back into the foyer. Staring at snakes wasn't going to get me anywhere. I had plenty of work to do and not much time to get it done.

Taking a right turn, I passed down into the same hallway that Smythe had taken, one that led into the kitchen. I took several complicated and confusing turns, which would inevitably lead me towards the general's office and his personal library.

It would have been easy for someone to get lost in those hallways. With all the different floors, doors, and corridors, it was a wretchedly confusing place. As a child, it had been the ideal paradise for the grandest game of hide-and-seek in recorded history, but after a while, it had gotten rather tiring. I rarely ever had anyone to play with, unless of course, they started hunting me down for my lessons. And during those times, they rarely ever appreciated my games. On more than one occasion, I had even gotten lost myself. It had finally come to the point where Aunt Eloise had simply banned me from the majority of the house, which of course, had been simply another rule that I completely disregarded. So fortunately for me, I was much better acquainted with the layout of the house than most. After all, I had spent hours studying the rooms I was never supposed to be in simply to get on everyone's last nerve.

Once I had finally reached the hallway where the general's office was, I passed by several rooms and carefully crept as quietly as possible on the creaky wooden floor towards my destination. His library was at the very end of the hallway, although to access it, I would be required to pass by his door. I only hoped it wasn't open.

Upon further inspection, however, I realized it wasn't, much to my relief. I picked up the pace, moving even quicker than necessary to pass his office, but automatically froze as the sound of raised voices wafted through the wooden barrier. Someone was in there. Well, not someone - some _people _were in there. And judging by the sound, they were having a discussion. A very _loud_ discussion.

A sudden urge, one resembling the one from five years ago, began to resurface, but I pushed it away. I was not going to eavesdrop. For once in my life, I really didn't want to know what the general was up to. I was afraid of what I might discover.

I forced myself onward, focusing on my large mahogany goal at the very end. I was quite proud of myself for resisting the desire to poke my nose in other people's business. For me, that was quite the accomplishment. Although, the truth was, I was simply taking my nosiness to a more civilized degree. Instead of eavesdropping, I was going to snoop in a library. Quite the improvement.

But when I truly thought about it, however, this wasn't simply snooping. I wasn't just sticking my nose in other people's business. This time, it was _my _business. My life was being affected by this. And in my opinion, that meant I had a right to know. This was about more than just about my immature childhood curiosity. My entire future was on the line.

I stepped towards the door, my heart thumping wildly in my chest, as I reached towards the brass handle. Grasping it with my sweaty palms, I gave it small turn.

Nothing.

I twisted it harder, but still, no results.

I bent over, closing one eye and peaking through the keyhole with the other. For some reason, the door was locked. It wasn't usually. Or else, whenever it was, I simply had something with me to unlock it, like a pin. But this time, I didn't have anything. No key, no pin – nothing. That left with me two options: I could either go and ask for the key (something that was never going to happen), or scour the entire house for something that could serve as a lock-breaking device.

And right now, number two was the most appealing option.

I stood up, giving up my futile attempts of trying to persuade the door to give in to my demands, and sighed in frustration. Balling my left hand into a fist, I pounded it softly against the door and pressed my head against it in defeat. Nothing about this day was going very well. Maybe it would just be better for me to give up, hide the letter, and try to forget about it while I was stuffing my face over dinner. Wouldn't that be nice?

Wistfully, in my mind-deprived state, I began to envision plates filled with gravy and mashed potatoes. Would that be what we were having for dinner? Or would this be one of those nights when we would be going for a more traditional Indian-style food? It had been a while since we'd had curry.

I groaned. I was really losing it. My entire future was at stake, and I was dreaming about _curry_.

I flipped around, my back now against the wall, and began to slide to the floor. Well, as long as I was too unmotivated and hungry to go searching for some sort of pin, I could just stay here, wallow in misery, and have a pity-party. Might as well start replaying and listing all the terrible things about my life while I had the chance.

"Don't you think that man looks like he has indigestion, Pratima?"

The sound of a high-pitched giggle followed the voice, startling me out of my stupor.

"Oh, good grief, Annie! Our job is to clean the floors, not stare at artwork."

I glanced up, leaning over a bit to catch a better glimpse of the hallway to my left, and smiled. Annie and Pratima. Exactly who I wanted to see.

They were farther down the hallway, sporting their usual baby-blue maid outfits as they went about the tedious and incredibly despised job of cleaning the never-ending hallways. Dusting knick-knacks, polishing floors – it was not an envied position. But as usual, the two girls were making the best of it, arguing and putting on a show for all who happened to be within hearing distance.

They were quite the odd couple, Annie being a red-headed Irish girl and Pratima a fellow survival of the Calcutta slums, but that only made them that much more entertaining. Annie had lived in the house for as long as I could remember, working on odd jobs until she had been old enough to work as a maid. Her mother was a widow and another victim of the infamous Great Famine of Ireland, but had managed to survive by find a job working for the general. In fact, most of the general's household workers had a similar back-story.

Pratima, on the other hand, didn't have her own quarters here, but would walk to work almost every day from her house (if you could call it that) in the slums where her seven little siblings and aging mother lived. She was the main source of income for the family, something I knew Aunt Eloise was well aware of, as she would sometimes pay Pratima extra in exchange for some of her traditional Indian cooking.

Those meals were some of the few I was never late for.

Both had become rather infamous in our household for various reasons, but I simply found them downright hilarious. Especially so when they started fighting over me.

With new determination, I pushed myself off the ground and began to approach them. They may have been a source of hilarity, but right now, they were the answer to all of my problems.

Upon hearing my footsteps, Annie looked up sharply, her emerald-green eyes widening in surprise. I flashed her a smile as she nervously poked Pratima, who was still deeply focused on mopping the floors, in the ribs.

"Ow!" Pratima hissed with a glare in Annie's direction, annoyed over being startled out of her floor-washing trance. "What was that fo-"

Her voice trailed off as her brown almond-shaped eyes met mine. I flashed an amused smile as I leaned against the wall, merely a few feet away from their sopping-wet cleaning area.

"Oh, umm, hello, Raj," Pratima managed, obviously flustered at my sudden appearance. "I didn't see you there." She looked from side to side as if considering where I could have possibly materialized from. "You appeared out of thin air."

"Yes," Annie agreed, nodding her head vigorously, "you quite surprised us when you appeared so suddenly out of nowhere."

Pratima rolled her eyes. "That's what I just said, Annie."

Annie gave Pratima a blank look. "No, it isn't. Not in those exact words."

Pratima sighed exasperatedly. "Of course not."

At that, a look began to spread across Annie's face, one that I took as the beginning of another one of their world-famous arguments over nothing. In other words, it was time for me to intervene before it was too late. Because once they got started, it was a long while before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. The world could be ending, and they wouldn't even notice it mid-argument.

Pratima had turned away from Annie and couldn't see the expression of impending doom crossing her features, but I could. All too clearly. And when Annie's mouth began to open, I knew that I had to act. Fast.

"I'm so sorry to be such a bother," I cut in, barely beating Annie to it, "but I was wondering if you ladies could possibly help me with something." With that, I leaned back and waited for their response. Only time would tell if I had avoided a natural disaster in the making.

With a start, Pratima glanced up at me, and Annie's eyes lit up, no doubt indicating my interference had come just in the nick of time.

"Of course!" Annie gushed, acting as though she had completely forgotten the earlier insult upon her very honour. And chances were, she had, or at least, had been distracted enough to let it go for the time being. Sweet, pretty, and with a heart of gold, she was a wonderful person, but to say it nicely, she had never been known as the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Pratima shot Annie a skeptical look as she switched her mop from one hand to the other. "Annie, we don't even know what he needs help with."

I bit my lip, holding back a smirk that was threatening to escape.

Annie glanced back at Pratima, flicking her red ponytail out of her face as she did. "Well, whatever it is, Pratima, I'm sure we can help him. I mean, he wouldn't ask us if he didn't think we could do it."

Pratima shrugged neutrally as her gaze came back to settle on me. Apparently Annie was a bit sharper than she let on.

Shifting from my position against the wall, I flashed them another dazzling smile. "I honestly hate to be a bother and pull you away from your wonderful work-" I waved in the general direction of their mops and various cleaning supplies "-but I just had one tiny favour to ask." I paused, noting that they were both rapt, carefully observing my every word and motion. Satisfied that I had their complete and undivided attention, I continued. "There's something I need in the library, but it's locked. I would go and ask the general for the key, but he's in a meeting right now. I'd hate to bother him, and I know that you two usually have access to most of the rooms when you clean." I shrugged, giving them a look that accurately portrayed my helplessness. "You think you can help me?"

"Sure!" Annie exclaimed cheerfully while carelessly pushing her mop to the side. It fell against the wall, but instead of stopping there, it kept sliding. I winced slightly as it clattered onto the floor, knocking over a bucket full of water as it did.

"Annie," Pratima growled, giving her a death glare as water began to seep onto the floor, no doubt getting into her shoes as well.

Annie blushed slightly, her face turning a colour vaguely similar to that of a ripe tomato. "Oops. I'll go get some towels…"

She took a step forward, but seemed to forget that the floor was now at least twice as slippery as before. And as her foot came down onto the ground, I could see what was about to happen even before she did.

Some have said that dramatic moments seem to slow, all time appears to pause. I have no idea how that is physically possible, but during that moment, it did. Because for some reason, I could clearly see the look of horror spreading across her face, Pratima's eyes widening and her desperate attempt to grab onto Annie, as well as Annie's arms flailing wildly as she lurched forward, seemingly propelled by some invisible force.

It reminded me of the clown act I had seen at the circus.

But as the girl flew forward, inevitably launching herself straight into a wall or face flat on the floor, I simply had to come to the rescue. Being the extremely heroic person that I was, or at least pretended to be, I stepped forward, placing myself directly in Annie's line of trajectory and reached out my arms, grabbing her before she could break her nose. And the rest of her face.

The sheer velocity of her rate of displacement was extremely high, as I soon discovered, the impact of her body nearly causing me lose my balance. But fortunately, I managed to grab her by the waist and bring her to a halt before she could push _me _into a wall.

It wasn't long before time began to resume its normal pace, and as soon as it did, she pulled away from my grasp. Clearly embarrassed over being awkwardly stuck in my arms and for having another less-than-brilliant move yet again, I could see her face transforming from the shade of a ripe tomato to an extremely overly-ripe one. It made her freckles more noticeable and emerald of her eyes appear even greener.

And now that the situation was clearly under control, I could simply add this to yet another one of my extraordinarily long list of "The Barely Credible Adventures of Pratima and Annie." I could tell that neither one of the girls was especially pleased about the situation – Annie being extremely embarrassed over her own folly and Pratima obviously not excited about Annie making a fool of herself and falling into my arms – but I had to admit it had certainly brightened my day. And it was especially intriguing to see a girl blush. With her pale skin, it was astounding how many different shades of pink, red, and occasionally blue or purple she could turn. For myself and most of the girls that I knew, there was really only one shade of colour we could turn. Some, like Mishti, were a bit fairer and would have a slight touch of pink flush their face when they were embarrassed, but I didn't know many people who really blushed. I certainly didn't.

Compared to many Indians of my caste, I was rather fair, especially when compared to Dravidians or Adivasis. Still, I was much darker than some Indians I had met, especially ones from Punjab or Rajasthan. I was, as Aunt Eloise had always said, a lovely shade of brown. Not up to par with what was popular in British society, but it made it slightly easier to assimilate. Sometimes, though, the fact that having skin that wasn't quite so dark made people like me more made me _want _to be as dark as an Adivasi. Because I didn't think that I should be pronounced "likeable" simply by the shade of my skin. No one should.

But whether or not the fact I didn't _visibly _blush was because of my skin, I wasn't sure. Personally, I preferred to think that it was because I was so rarely embarrassed. I was a master of embarrassing others, but I had almost perfected the art of never being embarrassed myself. Guilt, I hadn't quite mastered yet, but definitely embarrassment. Only Mishti was capable of ruining that for me.

Ignoring my fascination with the sunset pink that was now touching Annie's cheeks, I turned my attention back to her overall wellbeing. "You're all right, Annie? Nothing injured?"

She gazed up at me, her big eyes wide and long lashes sticking out, and emitted a weak smile. "Just my dignity."

I glanced back at Pratima to see her giving Annie a clearly unimpressed look and smiled to myself. I could practically read her mind from here, and sadly, it was the exact same thought that had unwittingly fluttered across my own. Annie's dignity may have been injured, but this sure hadn't been the cause.

"I'm really sorry," Annie offered. "It was an accident."

Clearly her favourite catchphrase.

"No problem," I countered, waving it off. "You're the one who almost flew into a wall. I'm just glad I was there to stop you."

Annie smiled, pushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "And I really appreciate it."

"Well," Pratima cut in abruptly, preventing Annie from carrying on her damsel-in-distress thank-you routine, "now we're going to have to spend the entire evening cleaning up your little 'accident.'"

Oh, joy. I _really_ didn't have time for this.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry," I remarked, yet again preventing another fireworks display from going off, "but if you wouldn't mind unlocking the library for me…?"

"Oh, right," Pratima responded as she maneuvered her way across the flooded wetlands. "We have the key here, although the general really doesn't want us using it for anything other than cleaning." She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, clearly waiting for my response.

"It's for him," I quickly responded. "I'd ask him myself, but he's-"

"No, that's fine," Pratima interjected. "I believe you. Besides, it's not like you'd go and steal something from him."

I forced out a laugh, inwardly condoling my actions by reasoning that I _was _doing this for the general, no matter how indirectly. By finding this all out for myself, I was saving him the trouble of having to explain it to me later on.

Rather twisted logic, undoubtedly, but it would have to suffice.

Pratima carefully made her way past me, jingling the ring of keys in one hand and gesturing something to Annie with the other. "Go find towels, Annie," she ordered. "I'll help Raj."

But to my delight, Annie promptly disregarded Pratima's words and fell into step beside me opposite of her as we wandered back to the library. "So what do you need in there?" she asked curiously, sending me a flirtatious smile.

"Ignore her," Pratima whispered to me in Hindi.

I smirked.

"What was that?" Annie demanded. "Were you talking to him in Hindi?"

Pratima shrugged. "Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn't."

"You know I can't stand it when you say things behind my back!" Annie exclaimed angrily, her face beginning to turn that fascinating shade of pink again.

Pratima rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up. You speak Gaelic with the other household staff all the time, and I live. Deal with it."

"Not around you!" Annie shot back, moving in closer to Pratima and causing me to become very uncomfortable as the two girls began to close in on each other from either side.

"Well, if you haven't noticed, honey, this is the Raj. And-"

"Of course it is!" Annie all but shouted back. "Who did you think he was? The general?"

Pratima and I exchanged a questioning look.

"I meant the _British_ Raj," Pratima clarified slowly, "And seeing as it is my home country, I think I should be allowed to speak my language whenever I want."

"But you-"

I cleared my throat. "Oh, look. We're here. At the library."

The subtly of my suggestion startled both of them out of their shrill little spat, and they glanced at me guiltily, somewhat resembling puppies that had just been caught tearing apart their master's best slippers. With a knowing smile, I held out my hand. "Keys, please?"

Appearing somewhat flustered, Pratima quickly slipped them into my open palm. Examining them, I realized that there were at least a dozen or more on the chain.

"Which one?"

She leaned over my shoulder and pulled out a silver one at the center of the chain. "Should be that one."

I took the silver key from her hand and inspected the teeth. At first glance it appeared as though it might fit. Bending over, I placed it in the hole and began to give it a twist. But before I could fully determine whether or not the key fit the lock, something stopped me short.

"Great," I muttered through clenched teeth.

"What?" Pratima asked in alarm. "Does it fit?"

Suddenly remembering that I was not alone, I turned to face them and forced out a smile. "Oh, it's nothing. I just realized something. I think it fits."

Turning back around, I gave the key one final twist and heard a satisfying click. I stood up and reached for the doorknob, which easily turned in my hand. I gave the door a slight push and watched as it began slowly creak open, resisting as if it had not been used in at least several decades. Pulling out the key, I turned around and handed it back to Pratima, carefully averting my gaze from the serpents on the handle. They truly were everywhere. And if the snakes were any indication, then I was certainly on the right path.

"Thank you," I said as I placed the key ring back in her hand. "You've been a wonderful help."

Pratima gave a modest smile and shrugged, causing her long, silky black ponytail to bob slightly.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Annie sending a seething glare towards her Indian counterpart. It never failed to humour me when they started one of their "Who gets Raj?" battles, although I had always wondered why Annie had ever paid any attention to me to begin with. The only possible reason I could come up with was that she was so far down the social ladder herself that it didn't even matter if I wasn't of the same race as her.

I turned my back towards them again, and even without eyes on the back of my head, I could almost sense Pratima sticking her tongue out at Annie. Apparently, maturity didn't necessarily come with age.

I stared into the foreboding room, trying to ignore the lingering odor that was attempting to escape into the hallway. If the smell was any indicator, then there had to be a family of mice that had made this place their home for several generations. Human generations, that was.

Two heads suddenly appeared beside me, inspecting the room alongside myself, snapping me out of my daze. Their company might be enjoyable for a time, but not here. This was something I had to do alone.

I took a few steps back into the hallway, hoping that they would do the same. "Well," I started, "you've been incredibly helpful. Both of you," I quickly added before another quarrel could ensue over who I was referring to. "And of course, I wish you all the best in your towel hunting, uh… adventures."

Adventures I was just thankful not to be a part of.

"You're very welcome, Raj," Annie replied, beaming radiantly at me.

Pratima rolled her eyes, but managed a small smile in my direction. "Anytime, Raj," she murmured in Hindi.

Annie's eyes narrowed. "Again with the Hindi? How many times do we have to-"

"Goodbye you two," I broke in with a laugh. "And good luck."

They were certainly going to need it.

With a curt nod, Pratima turned towards Annie. "_Now _would be a good time to go and get the towels, since you refused to do it when I told you. Maybe now that _Raj _said it, you'll listen."

"But why me?" Annie demanded with a scowl, obviously not pleased about Pratima's order or her inclination.

"_Because_," Pratima retorted, "you were the one who spilled all the water. Now go," she ordered, giving Annie a small push in the right direction. "They're in the supply closet on the bottom shelf."

Reluctantly, Annie turned and began to fall into step beside Pratima as the girl all but dragged her along. But after one quick glance to make sure Pratima wasn't watching, she peeked over her shoulder and gave me one last grin as she waved the arm that wasn't being forcibly yanked.

Trying to keep my emotions in check, I flashed her the most ridiculous grin I could manage with a short wave in return.

Suddenly, however, Pratima seemed to notice Annie's rebellious ways and jerked her arm to grab her attention. "Keep walking, missy. Those floors aren't going to clean themselves."

"But Pratima! Didn't you see that smile? And those _dimples_?"

It took all of my willpower to not burst out laughing.

"Annie, you're an idiot. He can still _hear _you."

And even though I couldn't see them any longer from my position under the doorway, I could easily envision Annie turning that lovely shade of tomato red and Pratima facepalming herself.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of them, but one thing was for sure. This place certainly didn't need any livening up. When I wasn't providing in-house entertainment, those two were. And with the three of us under one roof, who needed a travelling circus? They'd definitely made me laugh more than the clown act ever had.

The sound of their voices continued to drift through the hallways, although their murmuring grew softer and softer the farther away they became. With that surprisingly pleasant distraction finally out of the way, I was finally free to begin my investigation. And now, I was in a much better mood to discover hidden family secrets and whatever other treachery there was to unearth. Although there was no guarantee that even a routine like theirs would prepare me for what I was about to find.

I took a step into the dark, ominous library and instantly felt like I was suffocating. Whatever scent had been leaking outside was ten times worse from _inside_. And I had only taken a mere five steps in from the door.

In the pitch dark, I couldn't make out any lamps, so as an alternate source of lighting, I was forced to stumble across the room half blind, tripping over things that almost made me glad I couldn't see them, until I finally emerged on the other side. And with one magnificent yank (or maybe two), I ripped away the hefty draperies that literally weighed more than myself and was instantly blinded by a stream of golden sunlight, the last of the day's before the sun completely set. And not only that, but my great surge of power had also disturbed millions upon millions of pieces of dust that immediately began to exact their revenge.

Needless to say, I sneezed several dozen times before I could finally breathe again. And even then, whatever I breathed in was simply what I had just sneezed out. It was a vicious cycle.

But at last, the seemingly never-ending dust wars came to a ceasefire. I could somewhat safely inhale and exhale again, and I was finally prepared to face the inevitable. Flinching from the blinding last rays of the day, I turned to find myself staring at a sight like none I had ever witnessed before.

Books. Thousands and thousands of books.

I had been in the library previously, but never before had I dared to venture past those first few steps, never had I dared to disturb the library's quiet solitude. Until today.

Never in my life had I ever thought that books of all things could be so overwhelming. Definitely _studying _them, but their sheer presence? Impossible.

Yet apparently it _was _possible. Outnumbered more than a thousand to one, I felt _small _in the presence of these towering book shelves that reached far above my head and almost all the way to the ceiling. I was miniscule compared to the enormousness of this place – outnumbered, outsized, out _everything_. And despite not being claustrophobic, I was beginning to feel uneasy. Why? Because it left me feeling powerless.

The worst feeling in the world.

But if there was any place in this entire house that could reveal the secrets I longed to uncover, it was here. Whether or not I could manage to _find _them, though, was a different story.

I could spend my entire life in this place and still not learn a thing. It was all about luck. Or providence, perhaps. But either way, I would need a whole lot of _something_ to uncover anything of significance in this library. And maybe, just maybe, I'd expose the truth.

But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the world I was about to discover.

* * *

**So, I finally wrote this chapter. Took me long enough.**

**And I'm really sorry for this sort of… lame chapter. Pace was slow, more so because I needed to catch everyone up to speed since I won't be skipping around so much anymore. And honestly, I was seriously expecting more to happen, but I had to cut it in half because it just got too long.**** Guaranteed, however, is that the more dramatic stuff will be coming in the next chap. **

**As usual, I would like to thank all reviewers and would like to also thank all who voted for this story in the Madrigal Awards. I'm very proud to say it took home both "Most Original" and "Best Multi-Chap." But obviously, that would never have happened without you readers, so thanks a ton for that. :)**

**In any case, as usual, input, reviews, and all are welcome. Thanks for reading another, once again, incredibly long chapter. :) **


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